


Such an Almighty Sound

by coyotl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, D/s undertones (both switch), Dubious Consent due to Magical Intoxication, Frottage, Hand Jobs, I do what I want, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Magical Creatures, Misuse of Mythologies and Folklore, My Gun is Bigger Than Your Canon, Oral Sex, Rimming, Versatile Derek Hale, Versatile Stiles Stilinski, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:51:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 56,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3309575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotl/pseuds/coyotl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is more than he has let on, and Derek is kicking himself for not having figured it out sooner.  Then again, <em>knowing</em> isn't going to make things easier for anyone, and Derek might just have to kick himself for that one, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Canon? Probably not.  
> Hopefully I will be dropping enough breadcrumbs as to what has and hasn't happened, but let's just call it post-nogitsune and leave it at that. 
> 
> The title comes from Florence and The Machine's "Drumming Song"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“This have anything to do with hockey?” He was pretty certain that was absolutely not the case, but he wasn’t done being annoying if he could help it._

Derek waited until Scott and his Junior League had faded out of hearing range before he rounded on Stiles, fetching him up against the wall with the sort of shove he’d stopped using a long time ago. But it seemed appropriate for the given moment, and after the events of the evening, he was pretty much past the point of tempering his delivery. Even more telling, Stiles didn’t seem particularly surprised. He did let out an indignant grunt, probably more in regards to the questionable nature of whatever was coating the back alley wall than Derek’s force.

“What _are_ you?” There was a bit more gravel in it than he’d expected, although that didn’t seem to phase Stiles any more than the shove had.

He gave Stiles a small shake when it looked as though the next thing coming out of his mouth was going to be some patented Stilinski-level bullshit, although he’d lay odds that the homicidal look in his eye was what had the kid snapping his mouth shut. It had been a while since any show of strength on Derek’s part shook Stiles up.

And if he was going to be honest with himself, it was likely that he was just as pissed off at himself as he was with the conversation. It was embarrassingly late in the game to have put things together, even if he were to give himself the benefit of the doubt. But better late than never, and at this point he had no doubt whatsoever that Stiles was not what he seemed. Not entirely.

And he wasn’t talking about possession or dark forces casting shadows or any of that other shit, either. There had been a moment in that alley, maybe even more than one, where Stiles should have been by all rights dead. Had he been entirely human, he would have been dead.

They’d been caught unprepared, expecting wights when they got ghouls or some shit, Derek didn’t know and didn’t particularly care about the nomenclature, just knew that they’d been prepared for misty, insubstantial evil and they’d gotten a bunch of meat-fisted fuckers that wanted them categorically dead, and it had taken them a minute or two to rally.

A minute or two that Stiles had been stuck dead in the middle of, unprepared and barely armed. But his attackers somehow kept missing their mark, leaving themselves open for Stiles’ well-honed skull-crushing bat swings. And then there was the definitive moment, the one that Derek caught thanks to having his face pressed up against a wall with Stiles in his sight-line just at the right moment, when Stiles went from being in one place and then simply _not_ , crushing his attacker’s skull in from the back, where he had definitely _not_ been a second prior.

In retrospect, Derek knew he should have done the math a long time ago, should have realized the ridiculous odds against a teenaged human with a baseball bat surviving the never-ending mountains of ugly they’d been buried under time and time again. In Derek’s defense, his interactions with the kid had been relatively limited in recent history, and mostly under duress. Also, Stiles was really good at hiding shit. He might have been a piss-poor liar, but he could talk his way around the truth like nobody’s business.

Like he’d been trying to do just then, until Derek pushed in close and personal so that the little fucker could feel his heat. Hell yes, it was dirty pool. Derek was well aware of just how many utterly conflicted brain cells he fried in Stiles’ brain when he pulled shit like that, but he was, as he had already noted, past the fucking point. And anyway, it worked, if the look in Stiles’ eyes as he put his hands on Derek’s shoulders and pushed him back gently was anything to go by. He tried not to get too distracted by the way Stiles licked his lips and almost panted as Derek pushed in slightly before backing off.

Okay, no, that was a lie. He let himself get completely momentarily distracted because fucking with Stiles was one of those small delights his life had not deprived him of, much like scaring the shit out of trick-or-treaters, and he’d learnt that you had to take advantage of those small joys as they came. But he didn’t let it sidetrack him, not completely. He raised his eyebrow and canted his head, giving Stiles the go-ahead.

Stiles rolled his eyes, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, gritting out his answer almost unintelligibly. “I’m a Puck.”

It would likely be redundant and poorly received, but Derek thought he could write an entire dissertation on how useless these names people kept giving things was. Present case in point.

“This have anything to do with hockey?” He was pretty certain that was absolutely not the case, but he wasn’t done being annoying if he could help it.

The full body eyeroll he got in response was definitely worth it, as was Stiles’ frustration at having to spell things out. “ _No_. Like Shakespeare. _If we spirits should offend..._ that sort of thing?”

A few months back, Stiles had called Derek the real-world equivalent of an online troll. Just because he likely didn’t even remember saying it didn’t mean Derek wasn’t going to make him pay for it. And anyway, the opportunity was priceless, even if the truth behind it was enough to tighten up his gut.

“So,” he drawled, letting a smirk grow and flower. “You’re a _fairy_.”

Derek savored the bitchface he got in response. He knew it wasn’t ever a good idea to fuck with the fey-folk, but what the hell. This was _Stiles._ Annoying, stupidly unlucky and ridiculously lucky (which, given the news, started to make a completely different sort of sense), obnoxious, persistent, stubborn, opinionated Stiles, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t earned every ounce of shit he had coming to him.

(And it was _Stiles_ , brutally loyal, ruthlessly pragmatic and stupidly brave. Stiles who was there when and in ways no one else had been, never requiring so much as a nod his way, showing up anyway. Stiles, who he trusted in ways he’d never admit, not even to himself. So they said you should never trust the fey. At this point in the game, he’d never _not_ trust Stiles.)

Stiles recovered enough to point his finger dangerously close to Derek’s canines, but that wasn’t anything new. “First of all, _fuck you_ , asshole. Second of all, I _know_ you know better, you Unseelie motherfucker.”

And that did sting, just a bit, to use a classification that had been stapled on to his ilk by those arrogant humans, who thought they had a lock on reality and a right to classify their kind, as if any group of thinking, feeling creatures could be crammed into boxes labelled _good_ and _evil_ based on birthright alone. It stung even more that Stiles had a point and that Derek had to concede to it, but then again, when one took into account the amount of crow Derek had been force-fed in his life, this moment didn’t even make it to the pie chart.

He backed off to concede Stiles’ point, but didn’t back off the matter at hand. “So, what is a _Puck_ , then, Stiles? And why the fuck is this the first I’ve heard of it in relation to _you_ , specifically?”

It made perfect sense that Stiles would be capable of a shrug that could encapsulate the words _it’s complicated_. “Shakespeare also called us _elementals_ , like, a force of nature? And if you want to call it _fairy_ , fine, you can do that too, but it’s not cute and I don’t have wings. I guess... I have magic? Or I am magic? Sometimes I can move without, you know, moving? And sometimes things dodge me instead of me having to dodge them. And sometimes I can be invisible, but it’s not really like I can’t be seen, its more like I’m just not noticed, which, let me tell you, when you don’t know it’s happening that shit can be as annoying as _fuck_ , like this one time–”

“ _Stiles_.” Because there was only one way to stop a Stiles monologue juggernaut. That, and there were entirely too many questions in that statement. “How can you not _know_ what you are?”

Stiles raised his arms into another shrug and ran his hand through his hair, prevaricating with his whole body. “I’m just sort of figuring it out? I mean, I know what I _am_ , don’t get me wrong, I just don’t know how to...” He deflated when their eyes caught and he realized that it wasn’t going to be good enough. The rest of his answer was the sort of quiet and serious the kid usually burned calories avoiding. “It was my mom. She was supposed to teach me. But then she died, and it’s not like her half of the family wanted anything to do with me because my dad... they didn’t exactly approve of him, I mean, because he was...”

“Human.” Derek picked it up for him, knowing but never entirely understanding why it was so hard for humans to call themselves what they were, as if somehow having to classify themselves with words other than “normal” was a difficult proposition, meant admitting there was something other than themselves to contend with.

Stiles looked at him out of the corner of his eye with a self-deprecating grin caught on his shoes. “I’m sure there’s some other name for my kind, something all vowel-infused and mesmerizing. Puck’s supposed to be kind of an insult? ‘Cause you know, Puck’s like this powerful guy who can do all sorts of things, but all he ever does is what Oberon tells him to? So, us half-breeds, we can be pretty powerful, but... It’s like huskies. We’re not completely wild. We can be...”

“Tamed.” It was the most polite way to put it, and about the only term Derek could manage with any sanity at the moment, because the idea of being able to _claim_ this kid, especially with that added kick of something in his scent that he wasn’t bothering to cover any more, that was... Well. It made him feel awfully Unseelie, in every possible iteration of the word.

Stiles got it. At least some of it, at any rate, if the way he backed up and closed in on himself was anything to go by. “Bonus points for tact, but you know it’s more than that. _Way_ more. And I think Deaton figured it out, I think that’s why he stopped teaching me things.” Stiles fell quiet as he leaned back, forgetting all about the nastiness of the wall behind him, pushing words out with a breathlessness that sounded like it hurt. “It’s dangerous, Derek. _I’m_ dangerous. I mean, you saw what happened with the Nemeton, with that fucking fox-void-bastard. It wasn’t some weakness in my disposition that drew him to me, Derek. It’s just me. It took no effort for him to crawl inside and make himself at home. _I’m just easy like that_.”

The words were hissed out and broken, filled with all the consequences he pretended not to take credit for but Derek knew Stiles pinned himself with daily, with the girl-shaped hole that followed the two boys everywhere they went, even as they went on with their lives. He had nothing to say in response, had more than enough holes he dragged around with him, what had been family, what had been two kids he called pack, to know that there were no words you could throw in that direction that changed a damned thing. Blame was a thing you took on for yourself, and not a thing anyone else had the right to deny you of or the ability to free you from. It was either something you learned to live with or you let kill you.

It was also not entirely the point. “Do you figure you’re less dangerous, _not_ knowing what you’re capable of, _not_ telling the people you trust? Is that really how you figure this works, Stiles? Because I’m betting that if the right person got their hands on you, what you do or don’t think you know would be completely irrelevant.”

And Derek wasn’t going to put too much thought into exactly why it was pissing the hell out of him to think of someone getting their hands on Stiles. He was already putting serious effort into not thinking of all the different ways in which his hindbrain was calculating Stiles as his already. And even more effort into ignoring the push in his gut that was trying to assure him that all of this was academic, that the end result was given, that he needed no history to prove his claim because he would stop at nothing to keep Stiles from falling into the hands of another now that he could practically taste the raw potential of power running under Stiles’ skin. Japanese demon foxes notwithstanding.

Thankfully Stiles had more than enough self-preservation to sense the uncooth direction Derek’s baser instincts were taking. “No, you fucking twatwaffle. I’ve kept it to myself because it’s _none of your fucking business_. I’ve got enough shit to deal with without you territorial border-pissing mutts getting all _instinctual_ on my ass. _That’s_ why no one knows. You don’t own me. _Nobody_ gets to own me. Are we clear on that you fuckwit?”

Thankfully Stiles had the nerve to call Derek out on his bullshit as well. It’s not as though Derek was exactly proud of his more _instinctual_ moments. After all, he was raised by civilized creatures. Statements that ended in _with my teeth_ were only funny when you didn’t really mean them.

And yet.

He stepped back and kept going, not turning his back on Stiles, not yet, but holding both hands up, as if to signify defeat. “That’s perfectly clear, Stiles. And I’m sure you mean it, and you will mean it, up until the very second you don’t. And when that happens, I just hope you can remember who you trust.”

Derek turned on his heel and walked away, willed himself to let it go, as fucking hard as that may have been. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot. If Stiles was getting either too careless or too powerful to be able to hide his skills from Derek, it was only a matter of time before he caught someone else’s attention. Eventually, and wouldn’t Stiles just love the dog entendre, there would be a pissing contest over him. Derek had shown his cards by not hiding his intent and not downplaying his interest, and that was a gamble.

But then again, when it came to the fey, everything was a gamble. He probably shouldn’t find it half as exhilarating as he did, but then again, he was Unseelie. Even at their most civilized, they’d have to admit they had a weakness for the hunt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But that’s what you got for messing around with the fey. It fucked with you, in one way or another._

Derek woke up the next morning on his stomach, rutting into the mattress with the phantom weight of strong, capable hands shoving down between his shoulder blades, his ass canted high and begging for slick slide and friction. He came, untouched, imagining his name gasped out on a broken laugh.

He was long past an age where wet dreams were a common occurrence. And although yeah, he’d admit to pinning a passing thought or two on those large hands and that _fucking mouth_ , this was something much... more. Not exactly unnatural, not entirely unbidden, but like Stiles had said. Dangerous.

Sex had not been on his mind with regards to claiming the kid. Apparently his dick had other feelings on the matter, but he and his dick were barely even on speaking terms these days. At this point his track record was deplorable enough that he tended to keep his fucking as anonymous and short-lived as possible. It had limited charm. After all, carrying a knee-jerk hypervigilance about anyone who put their hand on his dick was kind of exhausting.

And it didn’t escape his notice, either, just who it was doing the “claiming” in the technicolor scenario he just woke up to. Not that he had issues with the position, _per se_ , but in the context of the given situation, it was telling. Maybe even alarming. That and the unprecedented intensity was certainly enough to make him wonder if the event was entirely the product of his own mind.

He mopped himself up carelessly and used his other hand to dial, figuring time was definitely of the essence if he wanted some straight answers.

“Oh, uh... Hi, Derek...” Throat clearing, heart racing and voice still fuzzy from sleep. With something to hide, but sounding more embarrassed than scheming. It was a bit alarming that he knew the kid well enough to figure all that from a few words, breath, and heartbeat, but he wasn’t going to overanalyze things. He’d lay money down on having shared that dream, and had no doubt that it had been an unintentional event. Not that this was exactly comforting.

“Any news?” He didn’t clear his own throat in sympathy, although it was a close thing.

“Ah...about?” Yeah, Stiles was definitely still half asleep and still recovering. He sounded dazed and his heart was still beating double time.

“The assholes that set us up yesterday?” He made sure to feed a bit of irritation into his tone to cover for any residual huskiness.

“Oh! Yeah, no, man. I haven’t talked to Scott yet today. It was his contact, which... _Why_ didn’t we see this coming? I mean, no offense, dude, but we really dropped the ball on that one.”

Much as it pained him to admit it, Stiles was definitely right about that. Maybe they’d gotten complacent, or maybe they’d just gotten tired, or the relative quiet of the past few months had lulled them into carelessness, but truly, between Stiles and himself, they should have been able to catch a false lead long before they walked into that alley. Instead, they let Scott, with all his good intentions, Alpha-muddle them right into a fucking death trap. As if Derek hadn’t done that often enough that they hadn’t already learnt their lesson.

Derek didn’t bother to say as much, just grunted an agreement and beat a hasty retreat before the conversation got on to any other topics. He’d gotten his answer, after all. Stiles seemed more than happy to get off the phone himself.

The silence that closed in on him wasn’t any better than the awkwardness he’d just run away from. He felt vaguely dirty, somewhat used even if he knew that Stiles hadn’t intentionally conscripted him into that dreamfuck. And it wasn’t that he’d hold it against the kid, suspecting that he was just as complicit in the event as Stiles had been, but the whole thing left him feeling vulnerable, threatened enough that even the most avaricious parts of his character were suddenly rather uninterested in chasing after this kid.

But that’s what you got for messing around with the fey. It fucked with you, in one way or another. And he should have known better. But he’d like to think that at that point in his life he’d learnt enough to know when to back away, even if he hadn’t yet figured out how not to stir shit up to begin with. He didn’t doubt that this was one of those moments when a hasty retreat was in order.

Unfortunately, while avoiding Stiles physically wasn’t an issue (especially since it seemed Stiles was on the same gameplan), avoiding Stiles on a magical level was another story altogether. He kept dreaming. He kept waking up sticky and panting like his puberty had made a second coming, and nothing seemed to be keeping it at bay.

It got bad enough that he went to see Deaton, for once as circumspect with the details as that shady bastard had always been with him, and basically got the long version of _it’s a two-way street_ for his efforts. As if he hadn’t already figured it out. As if he didn’t already know that he was as complicit in the madness as Stiles was.

And then there were the dreams.  The inescapable quality of their presence. The way in which Derek, less symbolically and more physically at every turn, was the one to submit, the one to be submissive, the one begging to be claimed. The way in which eventually he couldn’t deny his own attraction to the thought of being the one to wear the collar.

He’d been a piss-poor Alpha anyway. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why that was, and why he made a halfway decent Beta, even to someone as unassuming as Scott McCall, who’d never put a second’s thought into proving his dominance, who never asked anything of Derek aside from willing participation and welcomed him to leave at any time.

It took Scott to spur him into action, barging his way into Derek’s loft with a scowl that grew to comical proportions when he caught a whiff of the state of affairs as they stood in Derek’s loft. Derek was just glad that Cora had declined to stick around, because he’d probably never live down the scorn she would have launched his way.

It had gotten out of hand, but there were only so many sets of sheets and there was only so much diligence Derek could apply to stay on top of the more obvious details of the problem. Not to mention the way a lack of a solid night’s sleep was wearing him down. He didn’t even have it in him to get defensive when Scott covered his nose with a look of sheer disgust on his face.

“Holy shit, man, you’re as bad as Stiles!”

Derek bit down hard on the urge to ask for details. He was not a lovesick tween with a crush, for fuck’s sake. He settled for scowling in Scott’s general direction, although he knew that it lacked the usual heat. Blame it on exhaustion, but he had a feeling he looked a little more like an embarrassed puppy than he would have liked to admit.

Scott coughed out a laugh in response. “And you know what? The look on his face was almost the same as yours. Look, Derek, I don’t know what the fuck is going on between the two of you–” He held up a hand to forestall an answer, “And I don’t want to know! I just know that the two of you need to get your shit together, okay? So would you do me a favor and talk to him? Before the two of you collapse of exhaustion or dehydration or some shit?”

It was a fair request, made even more acceptable by the fact that Scott didn’t stick around to rub it in his nose or anything. But he was right. He and Stiles needed to figure their way past this. They still had the issue of whoever the fuck set them up with those ogres or whatever, and they had the issue of whatever other hell-wight decided to show up next week. They didn’t exactly have the luxury of playing mindfuck fey-driven games in their neighborhood, and Derek had been an idiot to think he could get away with starting this in the first place. So he also figured that it was up to him to end it.

He had a pretty good idea of what to do about that, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going back and forth about whether there's dub-con elements with this. I tend to think not really, but if you should feel there are, please let me know and I will amend my tags to reflect that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The kid should remember he had teeth more often. It suited him._

Not, let it be said, that Derek actually chased Stiles down. He knew Stiles well enough to know that there was absolutely no point in trying to pin the kid down into a conversation if he didn’t want it. Being the master tactician that he was, instead Derek just waited for Scott to call a pack meeting and wasn’t in the least bit surprised to find that it was less of a meeting and more Scott dragging Stiles into the room and then backing out with his best impression of a “Srs Bznz” glower, pointing both his fingers at them before slamming the door shut.

Derek was glad for the privacy. Stiles’ scent was hitting him like a brick to the side of his head, and he was having a hard time hiding that. It wasn’t that the kid smelled any different, just that Derek used to be able to write Stiles off as a teenaged pheromone factory and figured none of it was directed with any intent at anyone in particular. Now, though. Now he knew better. It had been keeping him up at night, after all.

And speaking of not sleeping, Stiles looked wrecked. Not anywhere near the sallow and dried out that he’d gotten by the time the Nogitsune was done having its fun with him, though. More like he’d been on a week-long bender. Which, Derek supposed, in a way he had.

After all, Deaton had described the experience as _intoxicating_. For Stiles, in particular. He’d given that little detail up as a warning regarding the addictive nature of the little fuckfest they’d been having, but Stiles wasn’t exactly looking at Derek as though he were a crack pipe. He pretty much just looked tired as hell and completely done with this shit.

Derek bit down on a laugh, but didn’t bother to hide the smirk. “It’s a good thing your dad knows about this fey shit. He’d have you pissing in a cup, otherwise.”

“He doesn’t, and he did.” Stiles aimed it mostly at the ground.

And Derek really wanted to chase that one down, but Stiles’ flat and worn out tone struck him like a physical blow. Watching Stiles standing there, wrapped up in his own arms, hunched down like he was half his true size, tired and wrung out and fucking _vulnerable_ – it was all the push he needed.

Derek had listened to what Deaton had to say and put a lot of thought into the matter, into himself, into Stiles in particular, and in the end came up with only one idea of how he could make it stop. It was a bad idea. It was a risk, a stupid gamble, but the only thing that made sense, given who he was. Given who Stiles was.

He dropped to his knees, bowed his head and dragged every ounce of honesty that he could into his breath. It had to be _believable_. And in order for it to be believable, he had to mean it, even if he feared the consequences, even if it went against every rational thought and survival instinct that he had. He found it remarkably easy to get there.

“Name your terms.”

Stiles reacted like he’d been doused in cold water, finally awake and aware. “Wait – _what_? What the fuck are you doing, Derek?”

Derek risked a small glance up and shrugged lightly. “I give. I yield. Name your terms, I’m yours to serve, however you see fit.”

Because he had done a bit of research on his own, and he knew the proper forms for this sort of thing. What he was offering Stiles was real. Weres could be claimed. Hell, the fey could claim anyone they wanted, if they wanted it bad enough, and the claiming could range from something as subtle as a sworn allegiance to something as indelicate as a thrall.

As much as he had meant it, he could barely hide his relief when Stiles started shaking his head like a madman. “No. No no no no no, Derek. No. This isn’t gonna happen, no way, you need to get that out of your head right fucking now, okay?”

Good. This was good, this was no less than he had expected, and that part in him that felt just a little bit crushed by the rejection could fucking well get over itself. This bullshit had gone on long enough. It needed to end, and calling Stiles out was the only way he figured it would happen.

Because honestly, realistically, orgasmic dreams aside, there was no way either one of them could last long under someone else’s yoke. At least not while remaining whole. That had been one of Derek’s realizations and it came alongside a startlingly strong resolution that he wasn’t going to see that kid any more broken than he already had, if there was single thing he could do or say about it. And in this case, he figured the only way to make that happen was to push until Stiles finally started pushing back.

He didn’t get off his knees.

“I can’t go on like this Stiles. Neither one of us can. So if you’re not going to stop, then fine, I give up, _claim me_ and have done with it so we can get on with finding out who the fuck is trying to _kill us_.”

That put a little fire back in his blood. “ _Fuck you_ , Derek. You think I’m doing this on purpose? I talked to Deaton, I _know_ you talked to Deaton, and this is... It’s like I’m sleepwalking, okay? And you’re the one who keeps leaving your door unlocked–”

Derek honestly had to say he liked the signs of life, the way Stiles’ back straightened and his shoulders tightened, the way his hands were slowly working their way into fists. The way his body slowly remembered that he was an opponent worth reckoning with, not just a supernatural lightning rod. The kid should remember he had teeth more often. It suited him.

“Oh, so you’re blaming the victim, now?” Yeah, he was baiting the kid, and maybe it was just a little bit thrilling to see how far he could push, but it was necessary, too.

“You know damned well that’s not what’s going on, asshole.” It came out on a hiss, Stiles rounding in close enough that Derek couldn’t help but stand. “You want it to stop? Good. So do I. So _stop letting me in_.”

And there it was. Tightly reined rage, close enough that Derek could feel the heat of those words as Stiles’ breath hit his skin. Enough anger that he meant it, every word of it, not a single blip of doubt or false bravado in his heartbeat or his tone. _Real_ enough and _strong_ enough that every part of Derek could hear it, could feel the unyielding rejection in it, could finally close that damned proverbial door and keep it the fuck shut.

Because that had been the problem. Stiles may have put on a show about being his own man the last time they had had it out, but he hadn’t meant a word of it. Not with any conviction, not with Derek, and not with that incessant undercurrent they carried between one another. But now that the current had been well and truly tapped, in mind if not in body, now that the potentialities had become something far closer to a reality and the consequences sank bone-deep, _now_ , Stiles could say _no_ and mean it.

And Derek’s fickle, ridiculous little heart could finally believe it. How his dick felt on the matter wasn’t under consideration. In any way.

There was no way he could parse his way through the emotional gumbo he was reeling in, but he had to admit that a good portion of that was relief. All tender thoughts aside, he felt like he’d just dodged a bullet of massive proportions. He couldn’t watch the way that Stiles slammed out of the room, though. And after he heard the jeep drive off, he left his car in the lot of the clubhouse-of-the-month and ran instead. Took the long way home. The one that took him the better part of the night to traverse.

And he wasn’t going to think too hard about that, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't really think it was going to be that simple, did you? After all, we're only just getting started...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Derek didn’t bother pointing out that Stiles had rescinded the right to tell him what to do. It wouldn’t do much good, anyway._

_To: Stiles_  
_how is it possible your dad doesn’t know?_

That may have been a little abrupt and possibly an impolite way to start a conversation when they hadn’t shared more than a quick nod for the better part of a week, especially considering how they had left things the last time they _had_ spoken, but Derek was known for being the king of impolite behavior. He was just living up to expectations.

And anyway, what was he supposed to say? _Sorry my groveling pissed you off_ , or _Hey, how’s it going? You over it yet?_ The simple answer was that there was no polite way to come back from a week of sex-fevered dreams and a few seconds of hardcore emotional manipulation.

At least the dreams had stopped. He could deal with Stiles avoiding him if he didn’t have to wake up with the sense-memory of those damned fingers reaming him until he cried. Or that mouth wrapped around–

The point was, the dreams had stopped, things were getting back to normal, and it was high time they started dealing with more serious issues. They didn’t have the luxury of ignoring each other in perpetuity, particularly given that Stiles _was_ one of those more serious issues.

 _From: Stiles_  
_My mom made it secret. I couldn’t tell him even if I wanted to. Not that I want to._

Knowing the Sheriff, respecting him for the sort of man and father that he was, that kind of infuriated Derek. That Stiles had waited as long as he had to tell him about werewolves, he could kind of understand, even if not knowing about imminent threats in his vicinity had put the Sheriff at unnecessary risk. But this was about _his own son_. There wasn’t a single plausible scenario in which the Sheriff wouldn’t want to know, and no good reason to keep it from him.

 _To: Stiles_  
_He’s your dad, Stiles. He’d want to know. He has a right to know._

There was almost no pause before he got a reply.

 _From: Stiles_  
_I am fucking aware that hes my dad ASSHOLE so cn you let this go and let m be his kid instead of some fcking project he has to loose sleep over?? he has enough shit to deal with._

Derek clamped down hard on the urge to write back _YOU ARE NOT SHIT_ , because he could already predict the volley of therapist-related epithets Stiles would send his way in response. His phone rang before he had a chance to come up with any other less-incendiary reply.

“And in case I’m not making myself clear here, _you are not telling him_ , understand?”

Derek didn’t bother pointing out that Stiles had rescinded the right to tell him what to do. It wouldn’t do much good, anyway.

“And I’m guessing I don’t have to tell you just how stupid an idea I think that is, do I?”

Derek could practically hear Stiles grinding his teeth over the sound of his hurried steps and slightly panted breath. “ _No, Derek_. You don’t need to tell me what you think of my stupid ideas because this is _none of your fucking business_ , okay?”

Given the way he’d insinuated himself into Derek’s existence, it was awfully hypocritical of Stiles to be shutting him out of any aspect of his. The argument was a red herring anyway. After all, Stiles was known for yelling about the inherent dangers that came of shutting each other out, often with varied and extremely detailed examples. Derek wasn’t going to raise to the bait by letting it distract him.

He was willing to table the discussion, though, in favor of his own curiosity. “Where are you? What are you doing?”

Stiles’ footsteps had become more muted but his breathing more labored, and given the unsettled state of affairs, it made Derek somewhat nervous to think he was–

“Hiking. Needed to clear my head.”

Exactly the kind of shit he was afraid to hear.

“Stiles, with all the shit that’s been going on, what the ever-loving- _fuck_ are you doing wandering around the woods alone? Are you looking to get yourself killed?”

The long pause he got in response was not what he’d expected, and just about the last thing he wanted to hear. “ _Stiles_ –”

“Look, it’s not like I’m on some suicidal kick or anything, okay? I just... if they come after me and I’m alone, where no one else can see, then maybe I can... I don’t know, do _more_. Like, if I’m not having to worry about getting caught by my own friends. And, and, seriously, I _legit_ needed to clear my head, okay? It’s not _that_ fucking likely anything’s going to come after me in broad daylight anyway.”

Derek didn’t bother to hide his sigh as he got up to look for his shoes. “Where are you?”

“I don’t need a rescue, _Derek_.” The height of petulance that kid could achieve was truly impressive.

But Derek could bitchface with the best of them. Even over the phone. “No, but you do need someone who can help you train, _Stiles_ , since it’s so _unlikely_ that anything else is coming after you.”

He had to endure a few more more bitchy comments, but Stiles eventually gave up his approximate location. Probably that had less to do with Derek's interrogational skills and more to do with the fact that Stiles knew Derek would hunt him down regardless, but he’d like to believe he still held at least a little bit of sway over the kid. And he was pretty sure he wasn’t imagining the hint of relief he caught at the back end of their exchange.

It wasn’t hard finding him, and it wasn’t hard spending the afternoon throwing himself at Stiles repeatedly, with less and less success as Stiles slowly figured out how to more deliberately tap into that other side of himself. It wasn’t even hard keeping any kind of sexual tension out of the picture. After all, it was far too fascinating watching Stiles trying to discover his hidden supernatural self.

As much as it had been simple work for Derek, none of it was easy for Stiles.  The levels of raw fury and irritation he would reach were just a bit awe-inspiring.  By the end of the afternoon, Stiles finally just dropped to the ground on his back, swearing non-stop at the top of his lungs for about a minute straight.  There were words and combinations therein that Derek had never even known existed or had ever thought of constructing, and that was saying a lot.  After all, Derek was a man who was very fond of the baser forms of language.

When Stiles finally calmed down enough to make actual words with real grammar, he said he could feel it _so close_ , right under his skin, but he just couldn’t reach it.  He said it was big and powerful and _so much more_ , just under the surface.  It was no less than Derek had suspected, no less than he had already smelled _._ Raw power, like ozone, leaking from his pores, stronger now that he was managing to touch at least a little of it, and even then, even hobbled as he was, there had been moments when it felt like standing next to a transformer.  It was  _there_ , right there.  And yet it was unreachable.

Derek could only imagine just how frustrating that had to be. Although it was true that there were a lot of skills and powers he’d had to figure out how to tap into on his own, his foundation had been laid with care and clear instruction long before his family died.  He’d never had to figure out how to simply _be_ who he was in any form. He would never have left Scott or any other made wolf to their own devices, no matter how much diva manpain star-crossed lovers  _bullshit_ he had to put up with, _t_ _hank you very much, Scott._  

Not only was it a cruel thing to do, it would have been a disaster written in blood. Which begged a small uneasy question, too. Given the right push, given the right drive, just how dangerous could Stiles be if he learned how to turn it all on before he really knew how to temper it with any sort of will?  What kind of blood would they be writing with then? And what kind of ruthless bastards could leave the kid so high and dry, vulnerable to any influence that came along, a loaded gun just waiting for the right trigger? Sure, his mom was dead, but there had to be _someone_ that knew, didn’t there?

Fucking fairies.

Nothing good ever came of messing with fairies.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It had to be one of those things written in the stars, some sort of sacred law. He would never be free of hunters, and he ought to know that by now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allrights kids, strap on your seat belts. Warnings for: gore, violence, and attempted non-con (very short-lived).  
> I am not fucking around here, lovelies. Fair warning.

The follow-up training rounds they had didn't go any more smoothly. In Stiles’ opinion, he made no progress whatsoever. If pressed, Derek would say that there had been changes, but they weren’t entirely tangible to someone with less refined senses. Thankfully, he hadn’t been pressed. Derek had absolutely no interest in telling Stiles that although he seemed the same, he _smelled_ different. Better. And by better what he really meant was that Stiles smelled like sex and power, or the promise of it, which was almost worse. Or better.

He wasn’t going to admit a bit of that if he could help it.  Although the dreams had stopped, they were both still haunted by memories.  And those came back with a vengeance once the novelty of training had worn off.  They'd only just managed to get to a point where one of them didn’t blush and stammer out an apology every time they ended up in some sort of compromising position. Given what they’d been doing, that happened so many times it went from the ridiculous to the sublime before they finally got over it. And there was no way Derek was going to risk getting caught back in the cycle of awkwardness they’d finally gotten past.

But in some ways, Stiles was entirely correct. There had been no tangible progress. Derek knew he was little to no help in that regard. Outside the hundred and one cautionary tales he’d been spoon-fed as a child, he really knew fuckall about the fey, let alone half-human fey, and how to help them tap into their hidden potential. Surprisingly, given the way he usually threw himself into research, Stiles knew next to nothing either.

It was a touchy subject. Understandably so. After all, anything having to do with the topic of Stiles’ heritage inevitably brushed up against the topic of his mother, and Derek was well familiar with the desperate need to veer away from thinking about the dearly departed.

After a few failed training attempts, neither of them felt particularly motivated to carry on. They had pressing matters to keep them busy anyway. Specifically, the issue of chasing down the false lead they’d been fed. The source had proven particularly hard to pin down. Predictably, it started and dead-ended with some sort of hunter information network.

Because even with the last Argent leaving and taking the remnants of Derek’s erstwhile pack with him, Derek had no right to expect a life free of hunter influence. It had to be one of those things written in the stars, some sort of sacred law. He would _never_ be free of hunters, and he ought to know that by now.

It didn’t help that Scott lacked the sort of healthy skepticism that any sane Were should have when it came to hunters. Thankfully he had Stiles around to keep him from running open-armed into a trap, but like their last encounter proved, not even Stiles could keep the idiot safe from every friendly ambush that came their way.

Not that Derek had all that much room to judge teenagers who trusted far too easily. But he’d like to think he’d learnt his lesson. Scott, on the other hand, seemed to suffer from terminal friendliness.  It came as absolutely no surprise to anyone when it reared up and bit him on the ass.

~~~ 

“Scott’s missing.”

It would have been nice if that call hadn’t come through in the middle of the night, but it wasn’t as though Derek slept all that well or all that regularly anyway. And he knew better than to ask Stiles how bad it was. They’d made it a habit not to raise the alarm unless the shit had well and truly hit the fan.

“Where was he supposed to be?” If Stiles noticed how sleep-drunk Derek sounded, he had the good graces not to mention it.

Stiles waited a beat too long to answer, and that alone burnt out the last vestiges of calm that Derek had been clinging to. “He was supposed to be meeting up with some guys, chasing down a lead, but that was hours ago. He never checked back in, hasn’t made it home, nobody’s heard–”

“ _Some guys_ , Stiles?” And the darker edge to _that_ question could never be mistaken for exhaustion.

“Look, I know how it sounds, and if I’d had any idea what he was up to... _I’m sorry_ , okay? I’ve been just a little distracted lately. And he’s a grown-ass True Alpha, why the fuck should I have to be his babysitter, anyway?”

Stiles had a right to sound defensive. He _should_  sound defensive. Derek was judging the fuck out of him.

“What it sounds like to me is that you let a _grown-ass True Alpha_ meet up with a contingent of hunters _alone_. And the reason you shouldn’t do that is pretty much why you’re calling me at ass-o’clock in the morning to help you out. So where the fuck am I meeting you?”

“Holy fucking – _fine_ , Derek. For the record, I didn’t even know this shit was going down. And you have no fucking right – No, you know what? I’m not even gonna get into this with you. I’ll text you the location. Show up or don’t, _asshole_.”

So maybe he’d been winding the kid up a little. It’s not like he hadn’t earned it. After all, he had woken Derek up for this shit.

 

The smell of gun oil and wolfsbane left no doubt about the nature of Scott’s current predicament. It was strictly amateur hour with these jokers, though, and between Scott’s phone still sending out its tracking signal and Malia and Derek’s scenting skills, they tracked him down easily enough. Out in the ass end of the preserve, down a rarely-used fire road. Predictable and typical.

Less typical was finding him in a cage bolted to the back of a pickup truck that had been covered in camo netting. The cage was large, like something used to transport zoo animals, steel and modular. Made it easy to bypass the lock and take the thing apart at the hinges. They had Scott out in no time, but he was too fucked up on some sort of exotic tranquilizer to be much good to anyone.

It wasn’t too long before the sound of a small engine approaching cut through the relative quiet. But they had developed something of a routine for pursuits, and once they’d gotten past Stiles’ obligatory bitching about having left their cars miles up the road, they split up with practiced efficiency.

Malia and Kira left with Scott, Malia being familiar with every last corner of these woods, and both fox and coyote instincts giving them expertise in the art of evasion and avoiding capture. Derek and Stiles, on the other hand, stuck around to provide as much of a ham-fisted false lead as possible. Or, to be more precise, Stiles flailed around the woods like a baby rhinoceros and Derek trailed him, keeping out of sight, ready to step in when their pursuers closed in.

The escape went about as smoothly as Scott’s rescue had, although the small engine turning out to be a cross-country bike made for some hard running on Stiles’ part. To be fair, Stiles actually did pretty well for himself, taking switchbacks and hitting gullies and rough terrain often enough that the guy on the bike had to keep both hands on the handlebars instead of going for a weapon. But it wasn’t going to last.

In fact, it shouldn’t have lasted as long as it did. The realization hit Derek like ice behind his eyes. The guy was holding back. He wasn’t just chasing Stiles, he was _herding_ him, and it was already too late.  By the time Derek spotted the slightly-too-evenly placed obstacles between a convenient gully Stiles was being led to, Stiles had already run between them and stopped dead in his tracks, falling to the ground with a scream that was far more animal than a teenaged boy should be capable of making. 

Derek leapt, half-shifted and wild, claws ripping trachea before the bike hit the ground, vaulting off the dead man and over to Stiles in seconds flat. For what good it did. Stiles had gone quiet, holding his calf and hissing out a never ending string of _ohshitohshitohshit_ , and the broken little sob at the edges of his voice was enough to turn Derek’s stomach.

It was a bear trap. Old-fashion steel jaws and pressure plate, biting into the flesh of Stiles’ leg and clamped into the bone. The sort of thing people talked about wild animals chewing through their own limbs to get out of. Stiles was already turning white and looking shocky. Derek didn’t bother siphoning off pain at the moment, figuring that his adrenaline was doing enough for the moment.

Derek framed Stiles’ face with his hands, gently lifting his gaze up from the trap and to his eyes. “Hey. Hey Stiles, listen. It’s going to be okay, all right? I just need you to lay back and breathe for me. Can you do that?”

Stiles let out a half-gasped laugh. “ _Holy shit_ , Derek. A fucking _bear trap_. Who the fuck does that?”

Derek opened his mouth to answer, but could only cough out a soft grunt in response as something hard and sharp drove its way into him and flooded his entire being with pain.

_“A trapper would. That’s who.”_

The voice was unfamiliar, but damning in its predictability. Derek should have known better. Assholes like these always travelled in pairs. He could only just barely make out Stiles’ hard grip his shoulder, had to work to keep his head up and track the conversation, could barely feel Stiles’ hand squeezing his shoulder. He thought maybe he was foaming at the mouth, but he couldn’t really be sure.

_“You son of a bitch, what the fuck did you shoot him with?”_

The guys’ smile was far too toothy for Derek’s taste as he widened his stance and hitched a crossbow over his shoulder. _“Relax, kid it’s just a corrosive. It ain’t gonna kill him, it’s just gonna keep him busy for a while. Besides, it’s not him you should be worried about.”_

A deep growl tried to work its way out, but it came out more like a gurgle. Derek tried to move, but the second his muscles contracted around the bolt in his chest, his whole body froze up like a vice. He could tell from the heart beating next to his ear and the bitter smell cutting through Stiles’ sweat that the initial adrenaline high was wearing off and he was starting to feel the pain. Wouldn’t have known it from the cold hiss of his voice, though.

_“Listen you goddamned motherfucking sisterfuck, you better–”_

_“You’re in no place to be making demands, you little dogfucker. The way I see it, you cost me a damned good partner and an Alpha dog as well. Now, that dog of yours I can get paid for. You, on the other hand, ain’t worth shit to me. So you better be giving me some damn good reasons with that pretty little mouth of yours if you want to live.”_

Jesus fuck. The kid had his leg stuck in a fucking steel trap and this fucker was? Yeah. He was going for his fly, taking a step closer and there wasn’t a fucking thing Derek could do to stop it. But Stiles? Stiles was vibrating out of his skin with tremors that felt electrical where his hand was still gripping Derek, his breath coming out high and tight like he was getting ready to jump off a cliff, half-formed words slipping from his mouth like he was working out a formula, a little gasped _Oh_ falling from him when the guy grabbed his hair and kicked Derek off to the side.

And with a volley of snaps, the guy fell to the ground with a confused grunt and a small shout of pain. It grew to a scream with a couple more loud cracks, sounds like branches breaking, and his legs looked funny, but Derek couldn’t really figure out why before Stiles gritted through his teeth.

“Don’t look, Derek. Please? Just... just look away.”

Derek did, couldn’t ignore the small scared and broken in Stiles’ voice. He kept his eyes glued to the ground but couldn’t stop hearing the screams that bled out into groans and gurlges, couldn’t pretend he hadn’t figured out what was happening, couldn’t stop himself from cataloguing the sounds. The loud crack of femurs breaking, the crunch of a pelvis crushed, the twig snaps of a ribcage collapsing, the string of pops following the spinal cord all the way up to the crackle of a skull caving in on itself.

The silence was thunderous when it was over.

After a few seconds he felt Stiles’ hand scrabbling for him, reached out and gripped it, helped Stiles drag him near and kept the ripping pain the movement caused to himself. Stiles wrapped his hand in a shirt and Derek did what little he could to help Stiles pull the bolt from his body, dropped to the ground and breathed through it, _willed_ himself to heal, because he could hear Stiles’ breaths coming in short, could hear his hitched sobs and gritted-teeth pain and the kid still needed him, goddammit.

He could pulverize a man with his own mind but he still needed Derek. So Derek willed himself to move, to open his eyes, to wake the fuck up and _move_ , because he might not have been human but he knew what shock was, how easily Stiles could slip into something close to terminal if they let things go much longer. So Derek spit blood, ignored the pain and picked himself the fuck up.

Wrenched the fucking trap until it broke, made the best pressure bandage he could and ran the passed-out kid to his car, to the hospital, into the arms of the trauma nurses, held him until they pried him loose and pushed him back out the door. He held it in while he called the Sheriff, kept it together while he checked in with Kira and Scott, grit his teeth until he got back to his loft and locked the door.

Made it to the bathroom before he puked up a gallon of froth and blood and sat in the shower, shuddering under the hot spray until his body finally loosened with a wracked-out groan and sob. He dragged himself into bed after that, feeling strangely disconnected, floating a step or two apart from reality, his mind reeling like a muted tv in another room, images of the past few hours flickering without meaning until he fell into a black sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Peter grinned like he knew anyway and leaned forward conspiratorially. “You’ve been holding out on me, nephew.”_

Derek woke up on his phone’s third ring, bathed in afternoon light. He heard Peter answer the call, a soft rumble too quiet and indistinct for him to make out words. The fact that he’d slept straight through Peter’s arrival would have been alarming, but Derek couldn’t summon the energy he needed to be alarmed. He could barely find the energy to open his eyes.

Apparently, whatever he’d been shot with hadn’t entirely made its way out of his system. He faded in and out, listlessly tracking Peter’s movements, but was still vaguely startled to open his eyes and find him standing right next to his bed.

“Stiles is stable. Just a fracture, not a break. But it sounds as though you two left a bit of a mess that needs looking to. I’ll just go take care of that, shall I? You just rest up, now.”

There was a time when Derek thought of his uncle as someone he might trust. That time had faded long ago, before he even had the excuse of being half-mad with burns and tragedy. After all, even Paige’s death carried the hint of his fingerprints, the echo of his voice whispering in Derek's ear.

He would have liked to stop the man, intercede or intervene or at least keep an eye on the wily fucker, but Derek was too weak to do much more than grunt and remain at least marginally conscious until he knew for certain that Peter had left the building. After that, there were an indeterminate number of hours filled with aching nausea and restless half-awake dreams.

At least he was up by the time Peter sauntered back into the loft. Sprawled out half-prone on the couch, but awake and capable of movement, which was a considerable improvement. A _necessary_ improvement when he took into consideration the way the man drifted in with a vicious little smile on his lips, sitting down in front of him. Derek raised his eyebrows as if he couldn’t be assed to prompt Peter out loud. Truth was he didn’t trust his voice not to let on how nervous the bastard was making him.

Peter grinned like he knew anyway and leaned forward conspiratorially. “You’ve been holding out on me, nephew.”

Derek did his level best not to roll his eyes. He fucking hated it when Peter pulled this kind of shit. As if the man had a right to any allegiance Derek had to offer. He couldn’t hold himself in enough not to cross his arms defensively, but the bastard’s cheeky little smirk was ringing klaxons in Derek’s mind, and he couldn’t help but brace for impact.

Peter did back up a bit at that, leaning back in his seat and tipping his head. “Then again, he is a tricky boy, isn’t he? I’m intrigued as to how he’s managed to hide his scent this long, given the company he keeps. I rather think it might even warrant a hospital visit.”

Derek bit down hard, knowing full well that telling Peter to back off would only earn him a condescending chuckle and some ridiculous comment about seniority and Derek’s apparent lack of respect for his only elder. The sort of thing that left Derek aching with the tension of holding himself back from trying to gut the bastard.

He tried to remind himself that this wasn’t his territory anymore. This wasn’t his pissing contest. Peter should mean _nothing_ to him. He was just so fucking good at insinuating himself into Derek’s life. Needling and prying. Baiting Derek. Daring him to make a move now that he’d lost that Alpha edge. Derek was beginning to suspect that Peter didn’t even have an ulterior motive, that this was just what Peter did. As though fucking with people was an irresistible compulsion for him.

The thought didn’t make Derek feel any safer, and it didn’t make him feel any better about Peter’s newfound fascination with Stiles. He wasn’t about to give in to the urge to protect the kid, though. For the sake of Stiles’ dignity, if not for the fact that the minute he jumped to Stiles’ defense would be the minute Peter would do exactly what Derek told him not to do.

“Sounds like a great idea, Uncle. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to have a heart-to-heart with you about shit that he’s been hiding for his entire life. Yeah. You should _definitely_ talk to him. I mean, it’s not like he’s ever been the first one to vote that we kill you or anything.” Because Stiles was not the only one capable of turning to sarcasm as a last line of defense.

And Peter, being Peter, just smirked even bigger. “Oh, come now, nephew. Give me a little credit. I do know the meaning of the word _tact_.”

Derek wasn’t certain if that was meant as a personal dig, but he let it go, inspecting his fingernails carefully as Peter kept talking.

“Although, to be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely certain this entire scenario calls for tact. After all, there’s nothing subtle about turning a man into a sack of jello. That seems like a bit of an overreaction, regardless of the events preceding it.”

His voice started dipping into that cold and calculated tone that had Derek ’s spine straightening. This was Peter, serious in a way he rarely ever was. “And I can’t help but wonder. Are you entirely certain he’s not a threat, Derek? Not to cast aspersions on the young man, mind you, _or_ to question his loyalty. But, Nephew. Are you sure he’s under control? Because that clusterfuck I just had to use a _shovel_ to clean up? That didn’t look under control.”

It was an honest question, and one Derek knew he couldn’t answer. He settled for glaring instead. “Maybe you should ask him, that, too.”

Peter tipped his head as if to concede a point, even though he’d done _nothing_ of the sort. “Maybe I will.”

 

If Derek broke a few things in the wake of Peter’s visit, that wasn’t anyone’s business but his own.

And Peter? Peter did nothing. Derek waited for a few tense days, expecting some sort of colossal fallout to come screaming through his door, but nothing happened.

Derek didn’t take it for granted. As soon as he heard that the kid had been released and was back home, he paid Stiles a visit. Through the front door, this time, far more welcome in the Sheriff’s home than he though he’d ever be. The Sheriff looked almost relieved to see him.

One good look at Stiles, and Derek thought maybe he could understand the manic, worried gleam in the Sheriff’s eyes. Stiles looked almost as bad as he had in his darkest moments. Maybe not quite as sallow and hollow-eyed, but somber. Dark. Scared. And far more still than he usually was. That part was always the most worrisome to Derek. There was something very uncanny, very _wrong_ about Stiles when he was moved to stillness.

“Peter knows.”

Never mind the fact that Stiles’ silence was making Derek jumpy, there was no point to beating around the bush anyway. In a disturbing reversal of roles, Stiles only raised his eyebrows in response, and Derek leapt in to fill the silence.

“He was the one to clean up the – to clean up, after. He said something about your scent. I didn’t explain anything, but he sounded like he already knew. He didn’t have any questions about what you were, at any rate.”

Stiles sat on his bed, flexing and straightening his fingers. After a moment and a breath, he looked up at Derek. “Okay.”

There was no inflection. Derek had no idea what to make of it. Derek nodded into the silence that followed.

“I just thought you should know.”

Stiles nodded back, just as vaguely. “Okay. Yeah, thanks, Derek.”

That dragged an exasperated snort out of Derek and another raised eyebrow in response, to which Derek could only shake his head. “Are you looking to get yourself locked up again? Because the way you’re acting right now is making people pretty fucking nervous.”

And finally, _finally_ , there was some fire in his eyes. “Yeah? Well, maybe I _should_ be locked up. Ever think of that? I mean, for fuck’s sake, Derek, you were there. You saw. Who wouldn’t want to lock me up after that? I mean, hell, _I_ want to lock me up–”

“No. _No_ , Stiles. You did what you did, what you _had_ to do to keep us safe.” Derek knew he was glaring right back, couldn’t help it, because _dammit_ , the kid needed to understand. “What you did, it saved us. That guy was going to kill you, Stiles, you know he was. He was going to have his way and leave you there to die in that fucking trap, and who the fuck knows what he was going to do with me. You did what you had to do to save us. That’s all you did.”

Tears had started to pool in Stiles’ eyes, but he looked too pissed to care about them. “Derek, _I don’t know what I did_. I don’t know what I did or how I did it. If I had to do it again, I don’t know that I could. And if I don’t know how to start it, Derek, do you think I know how to make it stop? Do you think I could? If something stupid set me off _just right_ and I lost myself to it again, do you think I could stop myself before somebody got hurt? Somebody who didn’t deserve it? Because I don’t, Derek.”

He caught himself up on a sob, looking back down at his hands, but stopped Derek with a hiss before he could answer. “Just _stop fucking thinking I’m harmless, Derek_. I’m _not_ , okay? You look at me and all you see is this kid with a fucking bat and you think you know me, you think your healing and your fangs can keep you safe – you get down on your _fucking knees_ for me, like I’m not the biggest threat out there, like I couldn’t just…”

He covered his face with his hands, finishing the sentence with a gritted-teeth growl, and Derek didn’t have a clue what to say, just stood there feeling unmoored, drifting, a little bit lost in the way he had felt that day on his knees, when he thought maybe he had meant was he was saying, when he was willing to admit just what that kid could do to him. How right he was. How completely defenseless Derek was when it came to Stiles.

The rest of it was muffled, his face still buried in his hands, but Derek could hear him clearly enough anyway. “Just go, Derek. You can’t help me with this. You need to go.”

 

In retrospect, Derek would readily admit to the fact that he was an idiot.

Peter had done nothing. _Of course_ he had done nothing. After all, the only thing he had to do was wind Derek up and set him lose. Like he always had. And like he’d done yet again, unwittingly dropping Stiles into his hands far more effectively than if Peter had gone to Stiles himself.

Peter had done nothing because all he had to do was wait for Stiles to come to him. Whatever happened after that, whatever was said, Derek would likely never know. There was one thing he did know. The only thing that mattered.

It was less than a week before Stiles disappeared.

Probably, it was more accurate to say that he left. He did leave a note or two, after all. Cleared his browser history and cleaned his room.

He set his house in order, and then he fucking disappeared.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But he was there, in the frayed corners of every unfinished sentence, in the vague hint of stale liquor that followed the Sheriff around, in the ache that came of every silent moment Derek would have, once upon a time, been grateful for._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an extra-long chapter for you, since you've all been so patient with my wayward habits!

There was a debate, initially. A question on everyone’s mind as to what they should do. Because after all, Stiles left of his own free will. Had asked that they respect his decision and leave him alone. Had probably even dropped a charm or two to keep himself from being chased down easily.

And Derek… Derek was fighting with himself. Because on the one hand he knew, most likely more than anyone, exactly why Stiles left and thought it necessary. He even had a pretty good idea about what he went after, even if he didn’t have a clue how Stiles did it or exactly where he was. But every fiber in his being was insisting that he move heaven and earth to bring the kid home.

He felt like he was spending every minute of every day sitting on his own hands, trying not to jump right out of his seat and run out the door.

All of that changed the day the Sheriff showed up at his door with Stiles’ phone in hand and a deputy at his back. They’d finally unlocked Stiles’ phone. And were there on official business. Namely the business that started with a text from Derek asking Stiles how it was possible that his father didn’t know.

It changed the game for Derek. Not so much the weapons, cuffs and threat of incarceration, but the look on the man’s face when he was practically begging Derek to tell him what the fuck was going on, what the hell his dearly beloved and painfully departed wife had kept from him, what was stealing his own child from him.

At that moment, Derek realized one very important thing. Whatever the hell else Stiles might have been, he was human, too. And that part mattered, just as much as anything else did. Not that it was easy or simple or clear-cut, trying to explain Stiles’ nature to his own father, but just that he had to try.

Just like he had to try to get him back, regardless of whether it was easy, or right, or even possible.

At least this time, when it came to facing down his uncle, Derek wasn’t alone. At least this time he had the full force and unadulterated wrath of a True Alpha on his side. And make no mistake, once Scott had been brought up to speed on the matter, he was nothing short of wrathful about Peter’s involvement.

Honestly, all Derek was really there for was to hold Peter down. Scott did most of the heavy work all on his own. Not that it did much good, since all Peter had done was set Stiles on a good lead as to how he could find his long-lost relatives. Which, if you were _of the blood_ , was apparently a fairly simple task. Not so easy for anyone not fey, though. And Peter was no help whatsoever in that regard. Even after Scott took to his softest parts with claws extended.

It took some more digging to figure it out. It took far too much time. Time enough for the Sheriff to bury himself in work and for Scott to get thoroughly distracted by whatever latest drama team juniorwolf cooked up. Time enough that it almost seemed like people had forgotten about Stiles. Almost.

But he was there, in the frayed corners of every unfinished sentence, in the vague hint of stale liquor that followed the Sheriff around, in the ache that came of every silent moment Derek would have, once upon a time, been grateful for. And Derek had been dreaming of him. Dreaming in that vague disjointed dream-logic world that was nothing like the dreams they’d shared at the start of this whole thing. But they still felt somehow more _real_ than most dreams he had.

It was one of those dreams that gave him the clue he really needed. It came in the form of a little black book that Peter was keeping, disturbingly enough, hidden under the cushions of Derek’s couch. A little black book with contact information that was decidedly not romantically related.

Derek would have been impressed with Peter’s ability to resist interrogation, except he suspected Peter didn’t even realize that the little mauve business card he’d absently tucked between the pages was much more than the contact information for a local herb shop. The woman’s name on the bottom of the card was Stella, and Derek knew, without a doubt, that _she_ was the link he’d been looking for. He could even smell it, the vague whiff of magic still lingering on the paper, a scent like the promise of lightning.

He didn’t tell anyone.

For his own reasons, many of which he had no interest in examining, he didn’t tell anyone at all, just made his way to the far edge of town, where the little shop stood at the forlorn corner of a dusty strip mall.

A little bell rang as he pushed open the door and let his eyes adjust to the dark and cool interior. Past rows of dusty shelves filled with jars, carefully labelled and alphabetically arranged, stood a washed out little woman with wild and unkempt gray and blond hair. She looked like she’d been waiting for him. At any rate, she wasn’t in the least bit surprised to see him there. Derek cleared his throat, trying to work his voice past the roughness laid in from air redolent and thick with what looked to be every variety of dried herb known to man.

“Ah, excuse me. I know this might sound like an odd question, but did this young man come in here a few weeks ago?”

Derek approached cautiously, trying his best to seem small and harmless as he held his phone up for her to see Stiles’ picture. She didn’t even bother looking at it, just snorted out a small laugh and leaned her elbows against the counter she was standing behind.

“He wasn’t kidding about the _tall dark and brooding_ , either.”

“So, You did see–”

“Normally, I’d say _no_ , just on principle. I may not technically be a health care professional, but confidentiality matters, even so. And you should know, he specifically asked me not to tell you. Or the curly-haired kid with the crooked jaw. Or the strawberry blonde goddess who was _almost_ as beautiful as me. _Or_ the sheriff, and why _that_ is, I’d be curious to know.”

“It’s his father. The sheriff.” Tit for tat. Reciprocity went a long way when information was the coin of exchange.

Her eyebrows raised a little in surprise and she nodded to herself. “As I was saying, I wouldn’t normally talk, but I can see a kid running from his own shadow when I see one. And from my experience, that kind of running gets you nothing but a face full of gravel.”

Derek didn’t let himself get too excited about the prospect. The tightness around her mouth and the way she was holding herself had him thinking that it wasn’t going to be as simple as that. “He’s missing. I think you know that. I think you can help me find him.”

Her mouth tightened even more, but she looked like she appreciated his bluntness. “I can do that, yes.”

“But?” Because there was very definitely a _but_ in this.

“Not for free. I run a business, after all. And when it comes to matters of this… nature, we’re all better off without favors being owed.”

She was right. When it came to magic, especially fey magic, it was never a good idea to be stuck owing favors.  In some ways she was looking out for Derek. After all, if she’d done it for free, Derek would be the one in debt. But. There was the question of the price. He shuffled uneasily, crossing his arms in front of himself.

“What do you want?” Because it wasn’t going to be as simple as money, he could tell. Not with this woman.

She examined him appraisingly for a few minutes. It didn’t make Derek feel any more secure. After a few seconds, she broke the standoff with a curt nod and reached onto a shelf behind her, pulling out an old book.

“I’d like to borrow you for a night, if you don’t mind. And yes, I know what you are.”

Derek didn’t think it was possible to simultaneously blanche and blush at the same time, but there were far too many possibilities behind that statement for his heart not to trip over itself. She looked up from her page-turning when he didn’t respond and sputtered into a cackle when she took in his expression, smacking her hand down with a hoot before she could catch her breath.

“Whoo! No, dear boy. Get your mind out of the gutter, will you? It’s nothing _that_ dire. Just need a little of your spark, nothing serious or debilitating or… _dirty_ , I swear.”

This would normally be a point in which Derek would likely be running for the hills, regardless of the fact that he could hear that she wasn’t lying. He’d been through far too much to think that he could trust a heartbeat. But something about this woman had him thinking it was worth the risk. _Stiles_ was worth the risk. And maybe she knew that he’d be willing to put himself at a considerable disadvantage if it meant getting Stiles back, but maybe that didn’t matter. As Peter would say, maybe it was academic.

He nodded, not quite trusting his voice, agreeing to come back the next evening, when the weather promised to be clear, a bit before moonrise. Thankfully he was in touch with his wolf-borne instincts enough to know when that would be.

 

He found her back behind the store, in a patch of tarmac that bled out into an unkempt tree line, dimly lit by a bare light above the back door to the store. She’d been busy, a large six-foot swath of space was covered in intricate designs. There was a footstool sitting in the middle of it. There was no need to wonder who it was there for.

But Stella was in high spirits. She was cheerful. She was kind. She showed him her tools, let him touch and smell and even taste them if he wanted.

“This has to be a matter of choice, you see?  You have to want to be here, or else it won’t work. The minute you want it to stop, the minute you want out, you’re out, all right?  I’m not interested in playing games, I just need a little of your juice to get ahold of a couple close friends of mine, that’s all.”

He should have been scared. He should have been appalled. Maybe threatening to rip her throat out instead of putting himself in her hands to get the answers that he wanted, but he wasn’t. He just wasn’t, that was all. It had been a hell of a long time since he’d come across someone he trusted so implicitly, and he couldn’t explain why he felt the way he did, but there it was. Not charmed, not lulled into a sense of security, not seduced, just… there. Like for one little moment, he knew he was exactly where he needed to be. Helping Stella place some sort of a long-distance supernatural call.

Nothing to it, then, but to give a slow grin and say, “I guess this beats having to move furniture.”

Stella threw her head back and cackled, saying she wished she’d thought of that before hand.

And so by the time the moon rose past the buildings behind him, he was sitting in the middle of a wild array of chalk designs, not a single pentagram in sight, just swoops and lines, dots and spirals all around. He had a shallow cut on each forearm, with a thread tied and knotted tight into it, thread that had been imbued in a mix of herbs that kept the cuts from healing, but didn’t burn or fester like wolfsbane would have. They just wicked his blood, a slow drop at a time, into small brass bowls placed at his sides. It didn’t even hurt.

She’d used the blood, when she’d stopped drawing with the chalk. She’d added a mark here and there on the chalk she’d lain down, on his face and chest, on the crown of her head. And when Derek could feel the moon, close to full and waxing, shining on his back, she started chanting, playing a little drum that looked like it might have been a coffee can not long ago.

Stella chanted and danced, and something in the moonlight made her look a little less than human, a little more than anything he had a name for. Derek wasn’t sure how much time passed, but he was pretty sure it hadn’t been long at all, the moon had hardly moved, when he saw two figures come out from the trees to join her.

They looked just like her. They looked nothing like her. They looked younger, and they looked far more ancient. Who they where, _what_ they were, it shifted, the way shadows moved in a breeze. All three women, if that was what they were, sat on a blanket that had been laid down a few feet in front of Derek. They sat and talked, they laughed and held each other and shared stories. Derek had no idea what, exactly, they said. He guessed he could have tried to listen in, but he didn’t want to. Didn’t even know if they were talking in a language that he could understand. It didn’t matter anyway.

He could see what this was, what they were, even if he couldn’t name their species. They were sisters. He could see it in the easy way they leaned into one another, in the comfort that they found in one another’s touch, the way they laughed and teased. Time passed, even as it felt like it was standing still. The moon travelled. The women parted ways as the moon slipped below the tree line.

There was barely any blood in the little bowls, even though he’d bled all night, and Derek felt as calm as if he’d slept the whole night through, even though he was pretty sure the sun was soon to rise. Stella cut the threads off his arms and dropped her head on his shoulder, wrapping him in a loose sideways hug. Derek patted her arm and rested his cheek on the top of her head.

Her voice was raw and rough, held tight with emotions neither of them had words for. “You’re definitely a keeper, Mr. Hale.”

He gave a small huff of a laugh in response. “Hey, if you ever need some furniture moved, I know some kids I’d be more than happy to send your way.”

It pulled a bark of a laugh out of her and got them moving. Stella insisted on feeding him, dragging him to the diner with a gleam in her eye.  “Hey, it’s not every day I get to show off my hot werewolf boyfriend.”

Derek tried hard no to blush. It only got her cackling again. She looked younger, lighter than she had. A little bit more free. But when breakfast had been demolished and she leaned in towards him, she looked all business once again.

“Here,” she reached out and dropped a small silver bell in his hand, “There’s a field, out past the Hedricks’ ranch, where Stephen’s creek makes a dog leg? Nothing but high grass and one big tree in the middle of it.”

Derek nodded, thinking he had a fair idea of where she meant, and she kept talking as she dropped what looked like a rolled up wad of leaves next to the bell. “Go out there when the full moon’s close to its peak. Stick that wad in your cheek. Don’t chew, don’t swallow, but you don’t have to spit. When you feel it kicking in, walk around the tree clockwise, ringing the bell in threes: one, two, three, like that, all the way around. Circle the tree three times, then wait. They’ll show. And listen carefully, because this is important: stay in the shadow of the tree. Don’t walk out into the moonlight. If you stay in the shade, you should be fine.”

The moon would be full in a matter of days. And Derek couldn’t say why, but that thought ran a cold chill down his spine.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Fairy Queen’s lips tightened into a moue. “He came to us of his own free will. He asked us to contain him, and that is what we have done. Far more humanely, if I may suggest, than locking him in a cage would be.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dub-con warning: Stiles is being held in thrall, so while he is an active participant in the events, he is effectively intoxicated and his consent is very much in question.

Derek knew _exactly_ which tree it was Stella had been talking about. As kids they’d been warned plenty of times to stay away from it. Given that his parents were dead and all their records burned, it was impossible to know if they knew exactly why the area had a bad reputation. It was the sort of thought that reopened his wounds, thinking of just how much lore and knowledge had been lost when the house burnt down.

Ironic, too, that Peter had known there was a tree where the fey had been known to congregate, but no amount of research would indicate _which_ tree. He just hadn’t put two and two together. By the way he spat about it while Scott tore into him, not finding the tree had been a bit of a sore point with him. In fact, he’d been hoping Stiles would lead him to it, but the kid had taken off too quickly for Peter to track him. It probably didn’t help that he’d been severely lacking in magical bells and herbal chewing tobacco. And allies of any sort.

Derek wondered what the hell Peter would think of what he was doing. He’d probably think putting his trust in some strange hippy woman was a suicidally stupid plan, but then, Peter wasn’t too fond of trusting anyone with anything. That came of being utterly untrustworthy, Derek knew, and liked to think that what he was doing was proof positive that he was nothing like that fucker. Also, he was short on options and ready to take some calculated risks.

He wasn’t going to lie, though. It did feel like a risk. His heart was beating its way through his chest cavity as he shoved the wad of herbs between his cheek and gums and prayed that he wouldn’t be writhing in pain and coughing up blood any time soon. Because even if he was capable of trusting and taking calculated risks, he was in no way capable of forgetting just how badly things could go when you did trust.

Thankfully, there was no mind-shattering pain or near death experience, just a weird numbing tingle spreading slowly through his gums and a vague light-headedness slipping in. He felt almost sleepy, or maybe like he was sleeping, and figured it was time to start circling the trunk with the little bell.

He didn’t need to be a spark, he didn’t need to _believe_ , because he already knew this shit was real, had already seen the evidence of Stella’s skills, so he allowed himself to feel just a bit ridiculous, ringing his tiny bell while he wound his way around, taking care not to trip on the roots of the big old tree. It was big. And old. A live oak, with low hanging branches, covered in small spiky leaves that rattled in the wind in a way that sounded like _more_.

By the time he was done he was nearly tip-toeing like he was drunk or half blind. His vision was starting to go funny, and the way the shadows shivered over the rough ground made it look like it was moving with a sinuous ripple, moving in time with a beat that had started thrumming through him, a mix of his heartbeat and the breeze moving over the grass. The rattle of the leaves had melded with the ringing of the bell, which seemed to keep resonating even after he’d stopped ringing it. All the sounds were coming together, becoming something almost physically palpable before he finally had the presence of mind to look up.

Like an image coming into focus, all the sounds he’d been hearing, the way that shadows had been weaving in the corner of his eyes coalesced and became startlingly concrete. There was music, strange, ethereal music with a rhythm like blood pulsing through his veins. There were creatures dancing and cavorting in the glade between the stream and the tree. Somewhat human creatures, but _not quite._

Elegant, vibrant creatures in hues so bright he could make out colors even in the moonlight. Kind of longer-limbed than they should have been, and there was something in the way the light rippled over them that made them hard to make out clearly, like sunlight bouncing off a stream. The mass of them moved like water, too, at times sinuous and flowing, at others explosively bouncing off each other and bounding over the ground.

Stiles wasn’t so hard to make out right in the middle of it all. He didn’t exactly stand out, in fact, it was a bit alarming how well he seemed to fit in, but Derek had grown attuned to him, could always spot him in a crowd. What that said about him, he wasn’t prepared to explore.

But Stiles looked… He looked good. He looked ridiculous, wearing nothing but some sort of ragged leather skirt, slung low off his hips and reaching almost to his knees, the rest of his lean muscled body and broad shoulders covered in dots, stripes and swirls of something that might have been finger paint or maybe mud. He even had feathers in his hair. Not ornamentally tied in like extensions or anything, just plain feathers haphazardly shoved into that unruly mass on his head, like he’d stuffed his head into a pillow or something. There was no reason why it worked, but somehow he could really pull off the whole wild-thing look.

Derek shouted out Stiles’ name before he could think better of it, then cringed with the expectation that everything was going to come to a crashing halt with the ubiquitous sound of a record scratching, puffing out a breath of relief when Stiles seemed to be the only one to hear him.

It was quite possible that the herbs were impairing his ability to think clearly.

Stiles extricated himself from the writhing mass, sliding past hands reaching out for him, but didn’t really seem to recognize Derek until he’d reached the tree’s shadow. And Derek was also not going to examine the way his heart leapt when Stiles’ squinty-eyed curiosity bloomed into a hundred-watt smile and he practically slammed into Derek with a bear hug.

“Holy shit, Derek! What the fuck are you doing here? I thought you guys would have forgotten about me by now.”

The paint Stiles was wearing had an acrid tang that stung Derek’s nose. Up close he could see spots where it had flaked off and the skin under it was stained the color of a fresh bruise. Although Stiles wasn’t slurring, he sounded drunk, _felt_ drunk in the soft and languid way his body just gave under Derek’s fingers.  His eyes were vaguely clouded, sort of uncoordinated, like he was having trouble focusing.  Well, he certainly wasn’t the only one. Derek was finding it very hard to think.

He had to push Stiles a step back but didn’t let go, hands gripped tight around Stiles’ upper arms. “Forgotten about– Stiles, it’s only been a few weeks, what do you mean _forgotten_?”

But then he remembered far too many tales about the fey and the funny way they could mess with time, and a feeling of dread started crawling up his spine. “Stiles, how long has it been?”

Stiles shook his head and shrugged with a goofy grin, and yeah, maybe he didn’t smell intoxicated, but the only words that would properly describe the way he looked were _fucked up_. Derek gave him a little shake when his eyes started to wander and tried again.

“Stiles, how long have you been with these people?”

Stiles gave a little weave and answered with a laugh. “Oh, man, that’s hard to say. Years? Or maybe… maybe days?” He squinted his eyes like a drunk failing a field sobriety test. “Yeah, no. I have nooo idea, dude.” The he brightened visibly again, “But I’m glad you’re here, man! It’s really nice to see you!”

Derek might have been fighting the urge to puke if the shit he was sucking on wasn’t seriously taking the edge off. As it was, he still had to swallow hard and clear his throat to keep his tone neutral.

“It’s great to see you too. Nobody forgot about you, Stiles. We miss you. Are you okay?”

Stiles tossed out another high pitched bark of a laugh, pulling one arm free to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah, man, yeah. I’m good. I’m great. Just kinda really, really, reeeaaallly fucked up, you know? It’s kinda, a little too much? But yeah, I’m good.”

Derek tightened his grip on Stiles’ other arm, just shy of bruising him, but tried as hard as he could not to freak the fuck out. He had a feeling that would go over really badly. What he really wanted to do was dig his claws in and drag Stiles out, just keep running until he was somewhere dark and safe, but he knew he wasn’t supposed to leave the shade, and knew the kid wouldn’t take well to being dragged around, even in the state he was in. Honestly, he’d thought getting to Stiles in the first place was going to be the hard part. Now that he had him, he didn’t have a single clue what to do about it.

Getting him to come along willingly would probably be important, regardless. “Hey, Stiles? You know we all really miss you, right? Why don’t you come back for a while? Your dad–” His breath caught on the flash of awareness, the way Stiles’ head snapped up and his eyes cleared a bit. “Yeah.  Your dad, he needs you back, Stiles. We all do.”

Stiles licked his lips and nodded quickly, opening his mouth to say something when suddenly the music around them got louder and the beat picked up into something far more urgent, pressing in on them. Stiles dropped his head back with a gut-deep groan, eyes rolling back for a second and then he was gone. Standing right in front of Derek but fucking _gone_ , like Derek wasn’t even there, shaking him and calling his name.

Stiles didn’t even look at him, just brushed his fingers over Derek’s wrist and suddenly his grip was loose, hands unable to hold a thing and Stiles was slipping away, right out of his fingers and back into the crowd.

He didn’t disappear, either, and that was maybe even more maddening, he was _right there_ , just out of Derek’s reach, deaf to his call, grinding back against a tall blue-skinned man who was sliding his hands up Stiles’ thighs, bringing the skirt up with them while a delicate fey woman pressed against his front, sliding down to her knees, her hands on his chest pushing him back against the man, her face pressed up against his crotch and Derek wanted to stop watching but he couldn’t look away, couldn’t help the way everything in him felt _tight_ and _hot_ with the way Stiles tilted his head back against the man’s shoulder and let his mouth drop open on a pleading gasped out breath.

Derek jumped as a crystal-clear voice behind him cut through his haze. “He’s impressive, isn’t he?”

If ever there was such a thing as a Fairy Queen, he’d bet she was one of them. Every inch of her small frame was regal, the sword at her side was formidable and the scraps of hide she wore were adorned with jewels. She even had a crown of sorts, a mix of antlers, twigs, holly and feathers that looked far more impressive than any of its parts would have implied. Derek fought the urge to bow to her, though, even if he was inordinately grateful for the distraction she was providing.

She smirked a little as she kept talking. “For such a distractible fellow, it can take a surprising amount of effort to break his concentration.”

Effort. Derek felt his eyebrow rise of its own volition. “Is that what we’re calling it? Effort? Concentration?”

She quirked her lips in return. “And you would prefer we used the term…?”

Derek was feeling suddenly a fair amount more lucid, his anger paving the way, and it gave him the presence of mind to spit out the quid before he answered. “How about coercion? Wouldn’t that be more accurate than _effort_? And instead of _concentration_ why don’t we call it the ability to think clearly and exercise free will?”

The Fairy Queen’s lips tightened into a moue. “He came to us of his own _free will_. He asked us to contain him, and that is what we have done. Far more humanely, if I may suggest, than locking him in a cage would be.”

Derek sniffed out a small laugh. “I highly doubt this is what he had in mind when he came to you for help. Don’t act like you’re doing him any favors. If it was what he really wanted, you wouldn’t have to keep him messed up like he is. Let him go. If you really care about him, let him make up his own mind on the matter.”

And for some reason, as undoubtedly powerful as this woman might have been, and regardless of the disdain she likely held Derek’s kind in, she couldn’t really meet his eyes. “We merely keep him docile. He is far more dangerous than you seem to think.”

Derek showed his teeth, not giving a damn what kind of a threat it looked like, and had to force himself to breathe before he spoke again. “I’ve _seen_ what he’s capable of. And know him a lot better than you do, if you really think you need to fuck him up like this to keep him _docile_.  I also doubt his mother would approve of what you’ve done.”

By the looks of it, he wasn’t making any friends that evening. But it wasn’t as if he would have been capable of charming this creature into letting Stiles go. And even if he could think a bit more clearly, the shit he’d taken was making it pretty damned impossible to hold his tongue. Her mouth was tight, though. Every inch of her was wound up tight and pissed as hell, and that could only mean Derek had hit a nerve. He could only hope it didn’t mean he was about to get turned into a toad or something.

“He has the Skill to harness forces like my people, and the Will to Power of a human. These two attributes combined pose a marked threat, both to my kind and to humanity. Regardless of what _his mother_ or anyone else may think, I will not be releasing him while he remains unleashed. If you wish for him to go home, then, fine. Go fetch him. Claim him if you can, and take him with you. Otherwise he remains with us.”

Well, was there really a single damned good reason why Derek should have thought the night was going to end well?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Every damned fool on god’s green could think that Stiles was some special little snowflake of destruction, but there was no way in hell he was going to get the best of Derek._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dub-con in the form of magical intoxication continues in this chapter, more graphically than in the last.

It _hurt_ , having to look over again. Even if he couldn’t see the details, there was no doubt at this point that Stiles was getting thoroughly fucked, hips canted and arms back to grip the guy behind him, the woman’s head under his skirts, punched out groans and half-hissed cusses slipping out of his red-bitten lips, and oh holy hell, Derek just _wanted_ with a hunger so fierce it pulled his fangs loose and left him rumbling.

But he didn’t move, no, because at this point in his life, the instinct for self-preservation had finally become something stronger in him than any baser drive might have been. He turned back to the Queen instead.

“And what’s to keep me from becoming one of them the second I get out there?”

This time she did meet his eye. It was oddly comforting. “I have no need of dogs amongst my revelers. You will not be influenced. You have my word.”

“And Stiles?”

“Should you be capable of claiming him, he will no longer heed any call but yours.”

It wasn’t exactly comforting. What he was about to do wasn’t comforting, either, but the ultimatum was pretty damned clear. He had a gut feeling that if he didn’t get Stiles out that night, he’d never find him again. And that small, lost edge to Stiles’ voice kept playing back in his head, _I_ _t’s kinda a little too much…_

Yeah. He needed to get Stiles out of there.

They could figure the rest out after that. There was no doubt in Derek’s mind that if Stiles could, he’d be begging to leave. They’d figure out a way to break the bond or claim or whatever once this was over, and if they couldn’t then Stiles could hate Derek for the rest of his life, that was fine, Derek would deal.

As long as it wasn’t _this_ , Stiles reduced to incoherent begging, tripping over himself, lost and dizzy and at the mercy of any hands laid on him. It was… it was _rape_ , even if he was begging for it, it was a violation of the deepest order, the kind of thing the fey just never understood, free will being somehow so much more subjective for them, living constantly at the mercy of their own whims and fancies.

He stepped into the moonlight with a shudder running down his spine. Stiles looked over at him the minute he stepped into the light, head tipped to the side and eyes half lidded. There was nothing of the Stiles he knew in those eyes, shining like polished brass, taking him in like he was something to be consumed. Nothing of the teenager Derek knew in the sharp sickle smile flashing teeth in his direction.

 _Claim him_ , she had said. And then unleashed the wildest part of him. It was no version of Stiles that Derek had ever known. Not even the smooth cold and deadly counterfeit the Nogitsune had turned him into.

No, this was something much more primal. _Elemental_ , as Stiles himself had called it. Fire in his eyes and the sort of grace that he usually kept hidden somewhere near the surface but never quite let out, a smooth mastery of his own body that Derek had never seen in him. Derek froze as Stiles slipped away from his lovers and closed in on Derek, approaching as he would a threat he thought he could easily master.

 _Claim him_ , and everything about the way he sauntered in, trailing a hand over Derek's chest and shoulders as he circled was a taunt. Daring him to try. It set his blood singing, unleashed his thirst and lit his mind into a blaze, bringing out his fangs and claws as if he had no control over what he was.

It was everything Derek could have wanted. It was the last thing he wanted to do.

Derek snapped his arm out and grabbed Stiles by the wrist, pulling his hand off, jerking him to a stop. It made Stiles laugh, a knife-blade hiss of a thing, leaning in until he was a hairs breadth from Derek’s ear.

“What’s wrong? Are you scared?” His voice was more familiar, but it had this edge of _heat_ and _other_ that had Derek fighting off another shudder. “You should be. Only one of us gonna come out of this a free man. I think you’d look good on a leash.”

Those words and the hand that trailed down over his stomach called in echoes of Kate and filled his nose with the smell of ash, and suddenly _everything_ changed. In the span of a snarl he had Stiles on the ground, one wrist pinned under a knee and the other in Derek's fist.  It was those hands, most of all, that he was going to have to watch out for. He’d figured that out already.

Stiles gave Derek a bloodthirsty smile and bucked his way out from under, but Derek had been expecting it, knowing he didn’t have a strong enough grip to keep him down. Not yet, at least. Every damned fool on god’s green could think that Stiles was some special little snowflake of destruction, but there was no way in hell he was going to get the best of Derek.  He had tells, and Derek knew every one of them. Also, Derek liked to think that years of actively trying not to get beaten and tortured to death did give him an edge over any fey-borne gift. There was a lot to be said in favor of knowing how to take a punch, after all.

They circled each other in earnest, and he didn’t doubt that the madman’s smile on Stiles’ face was reflected in his own. Predictably, all he had to do was hang back a bit, open up enough to draw him right in. It was possible he’d been sparring with far too many teenagers recently, but at least they made it easy. Stiles closed in, tried to swipe Derek’s feet out from under him and Derek had him pinned to the ground in no time.

This time he made it count, pressing his whole body up against Stiles, grinding down and grinning wolfishly at the way Stiles' legs dropped open and just _gave_ , even if it was only for a second. He was off and back up before Stiles had finished gasping. It took Stiles a little longer to get on his feet. Teenagers were so easy. Oversexed fey teenagers even more so.

He wasn’t going to feel bad about it, though. There was a damned good reason why the fey were throwing sex at Stiles as a way to control him. It was an amazingly effective tactic. And it wasn’t as though claiming Stiles was going to be as simple as holding his face in the dirt until he cried _uncle_. In the end, Stiles was going to have to submit. He was going to have to _want_ it. So Derek was going to make him want it.

He didn’t go down easy. But to be honest, Derek was glad of it. He took full advantage of every moment they closed in on each other, pressing in, grazing him with heavy palms, breathing hot into his ear, _touching_ him in ways he’d dreamt of but would never have done otherwise. He told himself that in this case it was for the best. It was _necessary_.

He just wasn’t going to think too hard about how much he liked it, how much he liked watching Stiles slowly loosing ground, the focus in his eyes turning inward, his eyes tracking Derek’s hands and mouth much more than they should have. The way his mouth would drop open, the way he would bite his lips to choke back a gasp, the way his body would chase his touch, it spurred Derek on. It had him chucking with a rumble by the time Stiles was on his knees and _stayed_ when Derek laid a hand on his shoulder, thumb and forefinger ringing around his throat, looking up at him with an open mouth and a barely restrained pant.

It was too damned good. And he was probably going to go to hell for it, but he tightened his grip just to watch Stiles’ head drop further back, stretching out his throat enough that he could see the pulse jumping in his jugular.

He put every ounce of _heat_ and _want_ he’d ever felt for that infuriating little fucker into his voice, let it rumble out with the low cadence of his half-shifted self. _“Whose are you?”_

There was a small sob in the answer, like hearing the question had woken him up a little more than he would have liked. It was a whisper, but it was enough. “Yours.”

Derek didn’t waste a second in pulling him up and sinking his teeth at the juncture between throat and shoulder. He didn’t kid himself either, though. There was pain in the sobbed out _fuck_ that slipped out of Stiles’ lips. And he was pushing Derek away just as hard as he was pulling him in.

Derek didn’t flinch, though, didn’t apologize as he licked his lips clean of blood and gave Stiles’ unbloodied shoulder another squeeze, locking human eyes with him as he spoke with human tones.

“Let’s go home.”

There was a soft dawning awareness in Stiles’ eyes, a hoarsely whispered _yeah_ as tears sprang to his eyes, and after a couple breaths, the word slipped out like a benediction as he leaned against Derek and they walked away from a suddenly vacant glade.

_“Home.”_


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It wasn’t a game any more. It wasn’t some casual fuckery fraught with entendres, and Stiles had been right to shut it down every step of the way._

The walk to the car was silent, every step heavy, both of them sinking back into reality. It was likely Derek was expending far too much effort tracking Stiles’ vital signs, but there was no knowing how much objective time Stiles’ had actually spent in the hands of the fey, and if he’d been as messed up the whole time as he’d been that evening, there was no telling what kind of toll it had taken on his body.

His leg was healed, though. He wasn’t even favoring it. But then again, that could have been fixed with magic just as easily as it could have with time. Or at least, Derek supposed it could. Who the fuck was he to know? Not like he was going to demand answers out of Stiles. Even if he could, now.

And he knew he could, he could feel that, surprisingly enough, could feel the sway he had over Stiles more powerfully than he’d ever felt his influence over his pack when he’d been Alpha. It would have been creepy if it wasn’t so oddly satisfying. Which likely made it even more creepy, but he was far too tired to tamp down on it. He’d deal with later, when he was capable of thinking clearly. After all, the devil was going to have his due in all of this soon enough. But he was going to be damned careful not to push Stiles if he could help it. Let him hold his peace and keep his silence.

Stiles didn’t break it until they were back on the highway and it became clear what route Derek was taking. His voice was hoarse and more tentative than Derek was used to hearing, and it gave him chills. “Uh, could we maybe not go to my house? Don’t want my dad to see me like this.”

Derek couldn’t tell how deep the shame ran, if he was talking about his lack of clothes or something else entirely and it made his fingers numb to think about. He could do little more than nod mutely and steer towards the loft while his head reeled with an ache he couldn’t tame.

Stiles seemed so fragile and half broken, and Derek had to fight down both an overwhelming urge to keep him safe and a raging hunger to make somebody pay for what they’d done to him. It was disconcerting. Maybe this was the sort of thing a parent would feel for a child, but he imagined that that sense would have grown far more organically. This felt more like being hit with a sledgehammer, his entire sense of the world turned on its side and rearranged, not just making room for Stiles to matter, but making Stiles _the only thing_ that mattered.

Not that it pissed him off or that he was going to be stupid enough to try to fight what he was feeling. After all, he should have known damn well that any sort of claiming was a double-edged sword. Just that it was going to take a while for him to adjust. He just hoped he didn’t end up fucking Stiles up even more before Deaton helped them break the claiming.

Because, no mistake, this was going to have to be undone. There was no way he was prepared to take on something of this magnitude, hell, he wasn’t capable of keeping a houseplant alive, let alone keep a teenaged supernatural powerhouse healthy and in check.

It wasn’t a game any more. It wasn’t some casual fuckery fraught with entendres, and Stiles had been right to shut it down every step of the way. He’d been an idiot to think that the fey would have played fair with him, but Derek could understand why Stiles had done what he did.

He cranked up the heater when he caught a shudder out of the corner of his eye, could see Stiles holding himself in, almost rocking. Likely he had one hell of a crash coming around the bend. Derek pulled into his parking lot, fighting down an added sense of urgency, not wanting to add any stressors to Stiles’ state of mind.

He dropped his jacket on Stiles’ shoulders when they climbed out of the car. Stiles mumbled out a thanks but didn’t unwind enough to slip his arms into the sleeves, gripping the lapels close to his chest, walking in a hunched shuffle. It was all Derek could do not to wrap his arms around those shoulders, but he was guessing that would likely just make matters worse.

He gave in to the urge to stand as close as possible on the elevator ride up, and he might have been imagining things, but he was pretty sure Stiles leaned into his heat. He stalled out completely once Derek had closed the loft doors behind them, froze a few steps into the room as though he were lost. It was possible that in some ways that was exactly what he was, and Derek had no idea what to do with the hesitant shadow of himself Stiles had become.

It _scared_ him, was what it was. Scared him to see Stiles so timid and broken down. But he pushed past it, brushing by Stiles and dropping the contents in his pockets on the coffee table, on second thought picking up his phone and holding it out.

“You want to call your dad? Scott maybe? I’m sure they’d like to hear from you.”

It had been the wrong thing to say, had Stiles dropping back a step like he was ready to turn and run.  “No, no, I don’t think… I mean, I just… can it wait? I don’t think I can…”

Derek kept himself still, kept his expression open, didn’t move a fucking muscle, much as he wanted to throw his whole damned body between Stiles and the door.  He desperately wanted to know just what it was Stiles _couldn’t_ , what it was he was dreading, but again, he wasn’t going to push it. He was going to keep his damned cool. He dropped the phone back on the table and held his hands out, that universal sign, _no weapons, no threat, calm the fuck down, will you?_

He kept his voice as even as he could, even while he was trying to quiet the traitorous heart in his chest that had decided to match Stiles’ near panicked cadence in sympathy.  “Hey, no, it’s okay. No one knows I went to get you back, no one knows you’re here. It can wait, Stiles. All of it can wait until you’re ready, okay?”

That calmed him down enough that he didn’t look ready to bolt, at least. And anything else they needed to discuss could certainly wait until both of them were in a state of mind capable of carrying any sort of conversation.

Another hard shudder ran through Stiles like an electric shock, reminding Derek that there were more important matters at hand. Like stabilizing the vulnerable half-human. Seriously. Not even capable of keeping a potted plant alive, what the hell had he been thinking?

He spurred himself to motion, laying a soft hand on Stiles shoulder and moving him through the loft to the bathroom, going as far as turning the taps for him before he backed out and shut the door behind him. Waited until he heard the shower curtains close before he slipped back in and dropped off a change of clothes, slipping out just as quietly.

He had no idea what was an appropriate meal to feed a person recovering from a supernatural abduction, but a can of soup was easy enough to open and might at least help with that chill he seemed to have caught, if the shower didn’t do the trick. He would have made tea, too, if he’d had any. Not that he had a single clue if Stiles’ even drank tea.

It wasn’t as though they spent a lot of casual time together, but Stiles seemed more the kind to drink those ridiculously huge cans of energy drinks. As if he was in need of stimulants. In point of fact, Derek realized, he didn’t actually know much of anything about Stiles, outside of how he dealt with whatever emergency was at hand. It was an odd conundrum, to feel like he knew this kid so damned well, but didn’t even know what toppings he liked on pizza.

He was tired enough to get lost in that train of thought, was vaguely startled when Stiles’ voice cut through his haze. “This shit doesn’t come off. What the hell am I gonna tell my dad? Maybe I could tell him I joined a cult or something. Not like I can tell him I was following the Dead.”

He was still topless, Derek’s sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, staring at his arms and stomach in annoyance. The muddied marks he’d been wearing had left stains that had hardly washed out at all, wine stain purple marking up his body in ways that highlighted his lithely muscled form. It wasn’t exactly unattractive, even if Stiles didn’t look too pleased about it.

“They’ll probably fade out in a while. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

Because there were other far more pressing matters for Stiles to worry about with regards to his dad. And there was no way his conscience was going to let him get away with not bringing it out into the open.

“They don’t know you’re here, Stiles. But they know. About you.”

“What.” The fiercely betrayed glower he got in response was refreshing.

Echoes of his old self shining through enough that Derek had to resist parroting _inflections matter, Derek, if it’s a question, put a fucking question mark at the end of it, for fuck’s sake._ This was likely not the time or place to even out any scores. He couldn’t quite keep his eyebrows from raising defensively, though. That was maybe asking a bit too much.

“You took off!  What the hell did you think was going to happen? Your dad came to my door with handcuffs and a gun and nearly fucking _cried_ , Stiles. _Your dad_. So yeah, I told him. And once your dad knew, Scott–”

“Yeah, of course he did. And if Scott knew, then everyone knew. I get it, okay? Doesn’t mean I’m gonna be happy about it, but it’s not like anyone can use it against me anymore. I mean, not since you…”

And holy hell that crack in his voice and the way Stiles couldn’t finish that, swallowing reflexively like he was holding in tears, it ripped Derek apart. He could hardly recognize the soft and shaky his own voice became in response.

“It’s… We’ll fix this, okay, Stiles? I just did it to get you out, soon as you’re ready we’ll go to Deaton and take care of it, I swear.”

But Stiles was shaking his head furiously, wiping at his face. “No. No, you were right, Derek. If it wasn’t you it would have just been someone else, someone worse. It’s okay, just... It’s gonna take me a while to get used to it, okay?”

And Derek wasn’t going to panic, wasn’t going to take anything they said tonight to heart, wasn’t going to worry about it. After all, Stiles had just been through… god knows what. He was probably in shock, for fuck’s sake. That was what Derek was going to focus on, what he should have been dealing with all along, Stiles standing there still shivering and still half naked in his living room.

If he fluttered around like a nervous nursemaid until Stiles was fed and swaddled in blankets on the couch, that was no one’s concern but his own. The amused and slightly confused glint in Stiles’ eyes had him thinking that it was likely not the last he was going to hear about it, but at this point anything that crowded out that blank and overwhelmed expression was a boon. And if Derek felt some small piece of satisfaction watching him fall asleep comfortably, that was also no business but his own.

He took a moment to breathe a sigh of relief as he brushed his teeth and put himself to bed, calm now that it was all finally over, certain that things were going to make a lot more sense after a decent night’s rest. Even to him, that sounded likely overly optimistic, but he’d managed to bring Stiles home. That had to give him room for a little hope.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept before he was jostled awake once again, but something about the warm body sliding in next to him made it hard to wake up completely. He tried to open his eyes, croaking out Stiles’ name, thinking he should be doing something to stop this even as he wrapped his arms around and pulled him close.

He drifted off again, awake only long enough to hear his soft shush and whisper. “Please, Derek. I’m cold. Just, please. Let me stay.”

He fell back to sleep dreaming promises that he’d never let go.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And Derek could see, writ large all over Stiles’ face, the moment when_ then _and_ now _collided, the moment when all the shit he’d been under the influence of cleared just enough for him to think about what had happened to him, about what had been done to him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals heavily with the issue of consent, much more as a topic of introspection and conversation, but also contains a brief moment of dubious consent. If anyone feels that the tags and/or warning should be more strongly worded, please let me know and I will ammend it accordingly.

Derek woke up feeling loose and hot, Stiles’ back pressed against his front, ass rubbing languidly over Derek’s already rock-hard dick. It felt like a dream, a slow and easy shift towards half-awake that had him thinking something wasn’t quite right, but unable to tell exactly what.

His nose was overloaded with the scent of Stiles and something else, something sweet and dusky like amber and so thick he could almost taste it. It filled him with a gut-deep hunger, had him matching Stiles with slow and thorough thrusts, still drifting half there and half asleep as Stiles grabbed Derek's wrist and slid his hand up his chest until it rested over his pale throat.

It wasn’t until Stiles pressed his hand over Derek’s and squeezed that Derek finally came to his senses enough to push away and slide out of the bed.

Stiles tried to pull him back in, groaning as he trailed a hand over Derek’s thigh before Derek finally took a good few steps from him. “No, no no no, Derek, no. Come on, Don’t go away! Things were just starting to get good, come back. Please?”

Derek shook his head, words still hard to come by until that scent of amber amplified and threatened to engulf him. It took his cock jerking painfully in response for him to finally figure a few things out.

 _“Stop it. Now.”_ His voice was low with the resonant growl of a half-shift, and although he’d managed to keep his teeth in check, he knew his eyes were glowing steel blue.

The odor dissipated and his head cleared like he’d been doused in ice water, sympathetic goosebumps trailing down his arms and legs, a chill threatening to drag a shiver out of him, but he didn’t let it, didn’t move, didn’t break his glower, just then noticing how unnatural Stiles’ own eyes were. Like polished brass, pupils large, so black they seemed to suck in light.

Stiles spit out a hissing clicking sound, something he’d clearly picked up on his travels elsewhere, because none of it sounded in the least bit human. “For fuck’s sake, Derek, we were just having a little fun. And don’t even try to tell me you weren’t enjoying it, because we’d both know that would be a bald-faced lie.”

He didn’t bother trying to come up with a retort, just gathered as much conviction and will as he had and _pushed_. “Don’t _ever_ use magic on me like that again.”

Derek knew how to compel obedience with his voice. He’d done it as an Alpha, mastered the skill of it easily enough. It had always felt like issuing a challenge to an unmatched opponent, carried the sense that it could be fought, were the Beta strong enough to test his will. This was something of an entirely different order. The words felt implacable, an iron-clad decree, the word of fucking god, and it made him just a little nauseous to realize he had that much control over another living being.

Stiles’ eyes snapped back to their normal state between one blink to the next, nearly brimming over with tears while his whole body shook with fury. He cut his words out through tightly clenched teeth. “ _Fuck you_ , Derek. I’m not gonna apologize. I fucking _knew_ this was how you were going to react, and I don’t care, okay? I don’t fucking care because I need this, Derek. You understand? _I need this_.”

Derek had never actually seen a junkie working his way through withdrawal, but he had a feeling it looked a lot like Stiles did right in that moment. But Stiles was wrong. His body was healthy. Exhausted and maybe a bit malnourished, but a hell of a lot healthier than it had been when he quit taking Adderall, for a point of comparison.

So it wasn’t a physical problem so much as a mental one, and there wasn’t a chance in hell that Derek was going to let his dick get used as an emotional opiate. Especially not by this kid. Especially not considering every single goddamned factor that played into a power imbalance so vast as to be obscene in its own right, even while both bodies in question remained fully clothed. He gave his head another hard shake as he backed well away from the bed.

Calmed himself enough to work the gravel out of his throat but didn’t dare let a hint of pity or condescension through. “You don’t _need_ to get fucked, Stiles. You need to go home. You need to rest, spend some time with your dad, hang out with your friends. You need to get your head straight, and fucking me while under the influence of some magical roofie is not going to do that. And I’m not even going to get on to the topic of how fucked up it is that you’d think it was okay, _in any way_ to fuck me up so you could get laid. For fuck’s sake, your dad is a goddamned _Sheriff_ , I would have thought you’d understand the concept of _consent_.”

And he was absolutely going to play it this way, wasn’t going to stick around to watch Stiles’ guilt blossom as reality sunk in. Wasn’t going to feel an ounce of remorse for it because pointing out to the stubborn little cuss that he was seventeen and essentially Derek’s magical slave would likely backfire in every way possible and just have him fighting even harder to get down Derek’s pants.

There might have been a time when Derek would have contemplated it. There was clearly a dream or two that said that certain parts of him were more than interested in getting up close and personal with Stiles. But there wasn’t an ounce of him that was interested in being somebody’s goddamned _fix_. Or somebody’s drugged up fucktoy, for that matter.

He slammed around the corner of the loft which could ostensibly be called a kitchen, heating up some water for the instant coffee he kept around for people who could benefit from the effects of caffeine, digging some packets of instant oatmeal out of the pantry. He knew Stiles ate that shit because he’d been the one to put them there in the first place. He didn’t turn around, refused to look in the bed’s general direction, slammed shit around and made enough noise that he didn’t have to hear whatever Stiles was getting up to, whether it be bitching to himself, crying or plotting Derek’s murder.

But before he could get a full head of righteously indignant steam, he remembered the scene from the night before. The contradicting sights, Stiles confused and overwhelmed versus Stiles completely lost to the rhythm beating out around him and the bodies playing with his. Likely sex had become some sort of anchor, something that kept him from feeling like he was flying apart at the seams. The only thing powerful enough to distract him from the forces both surrounding him and burning inside of him as well.

Well, he was going to have to face it, now. He was going to have to live through it without the crutch of bodies pressing out all other thoughts. Was going to have to find out whether or not he could survive those forces. Especially if he meant it when he said he wanted to remain Derek’s.

Derek still had every reason to believe that it wouldn’t be long before Stiles came to his senses and went running to Deaton to rend them asunder. But. _If_ Stiles really meant it, if he really wanted to be Derek’s, then he was going to have to be fully capable of standing on his own damned feet with or without the luxury of getting his dick sucked.

He stopped banging around when he heard Stiles clear his throat not far behind him, and turned around with the most judgmentally raised eyebrow he could muster. For once, Stiles looked appropriately cowed.

“Look, I’m sorry. You were right, it was a dick move. I guess I forgot how… How it’s supposed to be. How you’re not supposed to just _take_ , how you can say _no_ and it can mean _stop_ and people should just stop and not… and not…”

And Derek could see, writ large all over Stiles’ face, the moment when _then_ and _now_ collided, the moment when all the shit he’d been under the influence of cleared just enough for him to think about what had happened to him, about what had been done to him. Never mind that he might have enjoyed it at the time. What mattered far more was that he hadn’t gotten a say in any of it.

He would have given his left nut not to be the only person with Stiles at that moment. His dad or Scott probably would have had a clue what to do with the kid as he stood there, tears starting to spill over his clenched jaw. As it was, Derek did the only thing he could think to do, which was to turn off the stove and drag Stiles into his arms.

Stiles didn’t push Derek off, but it did take a beat or two of stiffness before he finally just caved in on himself and curled around Derek’s chest and shoulders, gasping out sobs that wracked his whole body.

He had no clue if he was making things better or worse, but words fell out of Derek’s mouth anyway as he tightened his grip around Stiles’ body and held him as tight as he could without causing injury. “You’re home now. It’s over, okay? It’s over and you’re safe and I’m going to keep you safe, okay? It’s gonna be okay, I swear it is, Stiles. You’re gonna be okay.”

And even if he had no idea how the hell he was going to keep a single one of those promises, the thing that stunned him was how much he meant it. He didn’t care if it fucking killed him, he was going to do right by this kid. His track record of abysmal failure with those who depended on him wasn’t going to follow into this. It couldn’t. He was pretty sure that it would destroy him completely if Stiles ended up another casualty of the mayhem and destruction he called a life.

Stiles thumped him lightly on the chest as if he could tell Derek had been getting maudlin, pulling away enough to look at him skeptically. “Seriously, dude? You can’t even keep a houseplant alive.”

His snarky grin was watery but there, was every inch the Stiles that he knew, the one who would go to the furthest lengths imaginable to avoid personal problems. Derek never thought he’d be relieved to see that face, but didn’t let it show as he let go of his grip and turned it into a shrug.

“Hey, it’s not my fault, it’s a problem with the lighting in here.”

Stiles stepped back and gave an exaggerated full bodied Vannah White jazz hand flail at the wall of windows. “ _Really?_ That’s what you’re going with?”

And he might have been scrubbing snot and tears off his face, and Derek might still have been feeling like he was hemorrhaging, but the ground felt more solid beneath them than it had since Derek had found him. He turned back to the stove before Stiles could catch his sigh of relief, pointing with a jerk of his head.

“My phone’s over there. You should really consider calling your dad.” He plowed ahead when he heard a sharp intake of breath. “I get that you don’t want to, but he needs you, Stiles. They all do.”

Because if there was one thing in the world that could distract Stiles from the train wreck that had become of his life, it was the needs of others. And maybe it wasn’t the way a therapist would look at it, but Derek figured Stiles needed all the distractions he could get.

He ducked into the bathroom and got under the shower at full blast, though, before the Sheriff picked up on the other end. And not just because Stiles deserved a little privacy. It was a call Derek had every reason to suspect he wouldn’t have been able to survive emotionally unscathed.

It wasn’t long before Stiles stuck his head in the bathroom door, ogling Derek in a way that had him writing a mental note to get a shower curtain that was a little less transparent. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you ran away, there, princess. But you win, okay? You were right. And your coffee fucking sucks. So, uhh, I’m taking off.  Dad should be here in about a minute, since he’s probably running with lights and sirens to get here. So… Later, I guess.”

Derek wasn’t even sure what he garbled in response, but it seemed good enough to get Stiles to leave. He kept his eyes closed until he heard the loft door slam shut, and didn’t bother to pretend that it was because there was soap in his eyes. It took him a full minute to realize that he’d buried his claws into his palms hard enough to make them bleed, but given that he managed not to run after the kid, he was going to count it a win.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And Derek would like to have known what the hell direction his lifepath had taken that he was giving friendship advice to a teenaged True Alpha._

It had been mid-afternoon when Stiles left with his dad while Derek hid in his shower. He spent the rest of the night deliberately not thinking about anything, watching crap tv and getting himself to bed at a respectfully decent hour for once in his life.

Derek had a plan. He wouldn’t reach out to Stiles. He would keep what distance he could, get his news by proxy from the other wolves, let it be known that Stiles was welcome to call or stop by at any time. He would let Stiles come to him.

Of course, at this point in his life he’d also come to understand the fickle nature of the universe and the vast propensity it had to completely disregard any plans he may have made.

Scott was pounding a dent into his loft door by three in the morning, and Derek had a feeling that things were not going to go according to plan any time soon.

He yanked the door open mid-pound, secretly pleased than he could still sneak up on his Alpha. He turned his back, hiding his smirk and walking back into the loft, cutting Scott off before he could start, making Scott follow his lead.

Even if Scott had perfect control over his Alpha impulses, Derek knew he was pushing buttons. After all, nobody, wolf or man, liked to have a back turned to them before they even got a word in. But then again, nobody liked being harassed at three in the morning, either. And Derek didn’t doubt he wasn’t going to like was he was about to hear.

He dropped down into his couch with eyebrows already raised and demanding, trying to resist the impulse to cross his arms and legs. For a second, Scott looked taken aback, like he hadn’t actually known what he was going to say or do after he finished beating the shit out of Derek’s door. It was actually quite possible he hadn’t.

He deflated into a chair, taking a slow breath before he started talking, his tone much colder than Derek had expected it to be. “So. You saved him.”

Derek nodded, not taking his eyes off Scott, wary as all hell of that tone Scott was using.

Scott locked eyes with Derek, nodding along with his words. “You didn’t tell any of us you even had a lead. Then you went out and found him, all by yourself.”

Derek shrugged a little. “It wouldn’t have worked if you were there, and you would have insisted on being there. It was the only chance I had, so I took it. Besides, it worked. Neither one of us got hurt and he’s free. What’s the problem, here?”

The tilt of Scott’s head was perplexed, but there was something cold there, glinting in the corner of his eyes. Derek hadn’t seen Scott like this since he’d nearly ripped Peter to shreds, and he suddenly had a feeling he had no idea where this conversation was really going.

“Oh, Stiles may not be _hurt_ , exactly, but he’s pretty fucked up.”

The hairs on the back of Derek’s neck were prickling and he was itching to show fang just based off the tone of Scott’s voice and the predatory way his whole body was locking on to him. He took a deep breath. And another, for good measure, before he managed to drag words out of his tightened throat.

“What are you getting at, Scott?”

Scott gave a small shrug. “Did you bite him, Derek?”

Oh. That. He’d forgotten about that detail completely. “It’s not… Look, I had to. If I hadn’t, the fey wouldn’t have let him go.”

“Yeah. The fey. I mean, it’s a cool story as far as stories go, but… Thing is, you’re the only one that saw them. And you and your uncle were the only ones that knew that Stiles was one of them. And I’ve been trusting that because why the hell wouldn’t I? Except, now, here’s Stiles. He’s not talking much. Refusing to answer questions. Not sleeping at all. He says he can’t. He keeps saying he’s cold. He keeps saying he needs you.”

It was damned hard, fighting every impulse that burned through him and just making himself _stay_ and listen to what Scott was saying.

“He’s fucked up and making even less sense than he usually does. His dad says to give him space. Says he’s recovering from trauma and that we shouldn’t push it. But he reeks of you, Derek. And as far as I can tell, the only trauma I saw on him was your fucking bite on his neck.”

Derek started shaking his head at the word _reeks_ and didn’t stop, pulling himself up straight. “No. No, Scott, it’s not like that. I told him, I’ll tell you too – as soon as he’s ready, we go to Deaton and figure out how to change this. As for the rest, you’re just going to have to let Stiles get to it on his own. Trying to convince you that I’m not lying would be a waste of time.”

“What, so he can just say whatever it is you told him to say? Maybe do a couple magic tricks to prove you were right?”

“A couple magic– _He’s not human_ , Scott. And capable of a hell of a lot more than some magic tricks–”

“Yeah, _so you say_. But there’s _no way_. I mean, how could it even be possible that I didn’t know that? He’s my best friend, how could I possibly not know that my best friend isn’t fucking _human_? That makes no sense!”

Derek dropped his head, rubbing his eyebrow as he spoke, hating the feeling that he should be apologizing for something and answering with a shrug. “He’s a really good liar, Scott. I mean, not about the little shit, but that’s a part of the lie. Act like a bad liar so that no one looks too hard at what you might be hiding. His mom put a spell on him, to keep it secret. I’m guessing she was supposed to break it when he was old enough, but she died first. It’s not that you’re a shit friend for not noticing. And I’m sure he would have told you if he could.”

Because that was what _this_ was all about, once Scott was done fighting with windmills. And Derek would like to have known what the hell direction his lifepath had taken that he was giving friendship advice to a teenaged True Alpha.

Scott’s next question was much more of a whisper than the others. And was likely the thing that drove him all the way to Derek’s house at three on the morning.

_“What did they do to him?”_

Derek’s mouth was full of sand and his heart landed in his guts. He shook his head slowly. It was not his story to tell, and even if it had been, he would not have been capable of stringing it past his teeth.  A long and heavy silence silted up around them before Scott seemed to shake himself awake. He leaned forward and cleared his throat, this time looking like he was the one apologizing.

“Um. His dad… His dad doesn’t want you there. Right now.” There was a short breath and a wave of the arm. “Stiles is… We’re giving him back his phone, so. His dad just wanted to ask if you could… not come over or anything for a while.”

So, it looked as though Derek had been wrong. The universe had been backing his plan, after all. Making it happen at three AM without any actual need for Derek’s involvement. He would have liked to think of is as some sort of benevolent force, but it was pretty hard to ignore the bone-deep ache he was feeling as he watched Scott let himself out.

 

Of course, he should have taken into account the fact that Stiles was a force which would pathologically disregard any plans made by anyone other than himself.

Stiles worked his way around it, like he was so damned skilled at doing. He knew his dad was watching, knew that the man got nervous even when Stiles was on the phone with Derek. Instead of arguing the point, Stiles set them up with a joint gaming account. And since they wore headsets, no one had a clue that Derek was the sole player in Stiles’ new gaming guild.

Thus Derek learnt the great art of wasting time while playing games and talking shit. They sometimes spent hours on the line not even talking, each doing their own thing with the company of one another’s breath in their ear.

It was a moment. Derek knew that whatever status quo they’d reached was a momentary thing, just a way point between everything they’d already survived and whatever fresh hell was waiting for them around the bend. So he indulged. Stayed up all night, slept in, ate junk food. Got a little softer than he was wont to be, but this was good. It was never a bad idea to fatten up in times of calm, because things were going to be getting lean soon enough.

Even though they never talked about it outright, he could tell Stiles was feeling it too. That helium-filled feeling of something coming round the corner. And while everybody else was busy freaking the fuck out over what had become of Stiles, Stiles was asking questions. About the Nemeton. About the hunters. About Peter.

Questions Scott should have been asking, but wasn’t, busy as he was with the psychodrama that had become of Stiles disappearance. The drama that Stiles distanced himself from with a vengeance. And sure, maybe it would have made Derek’s life easier if he just _talked_ to everyone, but Derek figured his personal comfort did not matter anywhere near as much as Stiles being able to keep his own fucking counsel.

He himself had dealt with plenty of circumstances surrounded by well-intentioned people telling him that if he _just talked about it, he’d feel better_. As if _talking about it_ was such a simple thing to do. The only thing that was going to help Stiles at that moment was time. If his company helped the kid get some sleep from time to time, then that was all for the good, but there really was no _fixing_ what Stiles was going through any more than anything else in that damned town could be fixed.

But Stiles wasn’t interested in fixing anything, no. He shut everybody out, and when no one else was paying attention, he asked Derek questions. Questions that sounded like the ones going through his own mind. When they could, in stops and starts and coded fucking metaphors, they talked. Theorized. Pondered.

And Derek wanted to shout at the well-intentioned wall that surrounded Stiles. Shout at them that they should be talking to Stiles, that they should be _listening_ to him. It was an irony he knew Stiles would have appreciated, given the number of times he’d told the kid to shut up. It was also not something he was fucking likely to admit to Stiles, given the propensity the little shit had for gloating.

In the end, the net result of all of it was that Derek and Stiles were the only two people not looking surprised while they were being seated in the tiny little banquet room of the local diner, where Peter had requested they meet, claiming something about neutral ground and public spaces.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Stiles just looked ready to cut a bitch. Especially if that bitch was Peter._

_In the end, the net result of all of it was that Derek and Stiles were the only two people not looking surprised while they were being seated in the tiny little banquet room of the local diner, where Peter had requested they meet, claiming something about neutral ground and public spaces._

Other than Stiles, the looks on everyone’s faces had Derek thinking that they’d all been blindsided, and the only reason that could be was because they’d been obsessing over Stiles. Stiles just looked ready to cut a bitch. Especially if that bitch was Peter. There would never be love lost between those two.

The Sheriff had been invited. Stiles was pissed that his dad was being placed at risk, but Derek was far more worried about what it meant, that Peter had called in _everyone_ , even Deaton and Scott’s mom.

Peter likely didn’t really give a fuck what Stiles thought. Derek was pretty certain that others were just tools for Peter, that the only thing that truly existed in Peter’s world was Peter himself. And now it looked as if he was attempting to amass a goddamned army. There had to be one hell of a threat out there for him to pull this stunt.

Peter dove in without preamble as soon as the waitress was done taking orders. “I’m glad you all made it here, I’m not of a mind to stick around to repeat myself. You have a problem. To cut to the chase, you’ve got trappers in town.”

Stiles sniffed a bit, clearly unimpressed. “What, like those assholes that tried to take Scott? We took care of that.”

Peter laughed right back at him. “ _Those assholes_ were rank amateurs. They still almost got the best of you, and they were only the beginning. The Argents have publicly washed their hands of Beacon hills. There aren’t a lot of hunters interested in spending time in the town that killed off an entire branch of one of the most renowned hunter families. So, without the apex predator to contend with, you’ve got the carrion eaters closing in.”

The Sheriff had given Stiles a sharp glance at his _took care of that_ , but spoke to Peter. “You’re telling me there’s people who _trap_ werewolves.”

Peter gave a ridiculous little nod. “For fun and profit, yes. A significant amount of profit. But then, there is a significant cost involved in catching and transporting a werewolf against his will.”

The Sheriff shook his head, looking stunned. “Trafficking. You’re talking about human trafficking. What are they taken for?”

“ _Werewolf_ trafficking. _Much_ more lucrative prospect.  And easier than humans in some respects, as werewolves are a lot less likely to call the police if one of their own is missing. Especially considering how many of them live under the radar and are completely undocumented. They’re taken for anything their captors can get those muscles and fangs to do. And if the wolf doesn’t want to cooperate, they’re used in fighting pits, where the only question is kill or die.”

A stunned silence settled in the room. When Peter spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Hunters are their own kind of evil, if they fall off the code. But they do have a code. The only code trappers have is to make money. And as I've said before, make no mistake, we are talking about a lot of money and a very motivated group of people.”

Trappers. Derek had heard about them, but not much. His parents tended to avoid the topic. Likely they felt no need whatsoever to worry the children. After all, the Argents were known for being as ruthless with trappers as they were with wayward werewolves, convinced they were as much a part of the problem as wolves were.

Even so, trappers had been on Derek’s list of possible threats. He and Stiles had speculated that their first encounter likely wouldn’t be the last. He hadn’t suspected it was as large an operation or an issue as what Peter was making it out to be.

Any doubts Derek might have had about the seriousness of the threat evaporated completely when Peter answered a few more questions and then fucked off without fanfare, making it completely clear that he was not to be followed. That he was Getting the Fuck Out of Town for at least a year, if not ever, and that if any of them had any sense, they would do the same.

The rest of them spent a good few hours in that diner, eating far too much bacon and drinking far too much coffee, planning in half-hushed, hurried tones. Disaster planning, now that they had first responders in their midst. Plans were made. Buddy systems. Safety check-ins. Curfews.

Everything short of getting collared like wildlife, and Derek didn’t argue about any of it. He let them hash out the details. Pointed out a blind spot or weak point here and there, but had such little patience for it.

Because he could feel it coming. Like a goddamned freight train down a mountain. And he had a feeling that there wasn’t a damned thing he was going to be able to do to avoid it. A hand on his own shocked him out of his stupor. Stiles, eyes narrowed, was zeroed in on Derek and was sitting very, very still. His hand was surprisingly cold. Even so, it felt like a comfort.

“We saw it coming. That has to count for something, big guy.”

Derek wanted to pull away, to snap out something along the lines of the uselessness of people being able to foresee their own deaths, but he kept his mouth shut and didn’t move. For one, nothing useful ever came of standing in the middle of a room and screaming _We’re all going to die!_ And for another, he didn’t want to lose Stiles’ grip. It was helping with the inexplicable panic that was trying to claw its way up his spine.

It wasn’t long before Stiles managed to pull Derek outside, finding a shadowed, scruffy corner to lurk in.  He crowded into Derek's space with a determined and sharp focus in his eyes.

“Okay. What the fuck is it you aren’t telling us?”

Derek couldn’t lie, seeing Stiles on the offensive always made him catch his breath. Being the object of that focus was even more provocative. He wasn’t exactly proud of it, but he did fishmouth for a second or two before finding the right words.

“It’s not anything I can explain. I just have a really bad feeling about this one.”

Stiles was nodding hard by the end of it. “And I’ve learnt through personal experience that’s its never a good idea to ignore your bad feelings, Derek. So, what should we be ready for?”

Derek couldn’t keep eye contact and answer that question. “If this _feeling_ is right, no amount of preparation is going to make a bit of difference.”

He glanced up carefully when all he got was silence in return. He’d been expecting Stiles to flip out at that. Ever the pragmatist, he usually had no patience for doomsday declarations in the middle of planning sessions. But Stiles was just looking at him, mouth tight with a slow nod, and something in that moment made Derek want to talk, to reach out and _touch_ , to ask him all those stupid questions like _What are we?_ and _Do you want to?_

He took a step back instead, because this was definitely not the fucking time for it. The way Stiles started when Derek pulled away did not escape him, though. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one getting distracted by proximity. Derek watched as Stiles ran his fingers over his lips unconsciously and took a small step back himself.

“ _Right._ So we’re fucked, is basically what you’re saying. Normally, I guess I’d argue with you about that one. Except I have a bad feeling of my own, and it sounds pretty much the same. And the question remains. What can we do to be ready for it?”

The question was moot. They didn’t make it out of the parking lot. They were taken, in broad daylight, under security cameras and less than a hundred feet from friends and family. In less than ten seconds, with tasers and knockout spray, dragged into a featureless white panel van. It had been clinical. Efficient. Derek had been knocked out before he even managed to throw a punch, and Stiles had fared no better.

When the van had stooped close by and two guys got out wearing paint-spattered clothes, hard hats and safety vests, neither Stiles or Derek had thought a thing of it. By the time the side door shot open and another handful of guys fell out of it, they were already getting sprayed in the face with an odorless substance that made Derek feel soft and loose before he slid into something that kept him drifting back and forth over the edge of consciousness, limbs heavy and the world spinning blearily.

It took a while for the words that would drift in and out of his awareness to start making sense. By the time he could make anything out, he was sitting on a thin layer of hay dropped over steel, both arms trussed on to a horizontal beam about level with his shoulders. It was dark and his eyes were so heavy that he couldn’t keep them open, but he knew Stiles was somewhere nearby. His heartbeat had been the first thing he searched for every time he'd woken up.

The voices were no one Derek recognized. “… _knew_ that shifty fucker asking too many questions would bring us right to them. Told you, didn’t I?”

The second voice sounded substantially less gleeful. “Yeah, Boss, you sure did. Now what do you want us to do with the kid?”

“Leave him there.”

Not the answer Derek was hoping for, but better than _kill him_.

Apparently it wasn’t the answer the second guy wanted to hear, either. “Are you serious? He’s the Sheriff’s son, Boss.”

“Boost the wolf and leave the kid.” 

“But if I do that, then–”

“Either the wolf bites him or he kills him. If he bites the kid, then we have a Beta for leverage on the Alpha. If he kills the kid, then we’ll be the only ones standing between him and every single law enforcement officer in the state. Either way, we own him. Boost the wolf and lock up the trailer. The whole thing’ll be sorted by the time we get to the ranch.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And no, he was definitely not in his right mind, certainly not in any frame of mind to be making decisions, but Stiles was_ right there _, his hands a cool pressure, banking the heat that was starting to burn him out from the inside. And he smelled so good. So. Damned. Good._

So, they were in a trailer. Likely, a horse trailer, if the pervasive barn-smell and hay on the ground were anything to go by. Although Derek was finally aware and thinking, he could still hardly open his eyes, let alone lift his head enough to look at the source of footsteps clanging in his direction.

Although he couldn’t make out anything specific about the rustling sounds after the guy stopped next to him, the strong antiseptic smell made it clear that the visit was medical in nature. Likely he was about to find out what the fuck a _boost_ was. It was absolutely not anything he was looking forward to.

He nearly startled when Stiles cleared his throat nearby. “Holy shit, man, your boss sounds like an asshole.”

Derek heard the rustle of a shrug as the guy leaned in and swabbed a spot on his neck. He was growling, he could manage that much, but he still couldn’t move a single goddamned muscle. If the way the guy’s heart stayed relatively calm was anything to go by, he was well aware of how incapacitated Derek was, and wasn’t expecting that to change any time soon.

His voice was startlingly even, at odds with the violence he was inflicting, shoving what had to be a huge needle into Derek’s neck. “He pays me well enough that he can be whatever kind of asshole he wants to be.”

Stiles sniffed out a small laugh. “Think you could at least tell me what’s going on?”

Derek started picking up a scent drifting in their direction. The same sort of amber smell he’d encountered with Stiles before, but nuanced differently, less intense, more tantalizing, although it didn’t seem to be having an effect on him. He could hear the guy taking deep breaths as he slowly pushed a burning ache into Derek’s veins, could hear his breath and heartbeat start to rise in interest.

His voice was definitely not as steady as it had been. “We’re chemically inducing an Alpha state. You have to push hard to make something like that happen, it’s not natural and it isn’t gentle. Within a half hour or so, he’s going to be out of his mind. At that point, these restraints won’t hold him. He’ll either kill you or change you, depending on his instincts. We’re gonna have to gas the whole damned trailer before we open these doors again.”

There was something magnetic in Stiles’ voice. Derek could almost feel the guy leaning in his direction. “Think you could at least cut me loose?”

“Why? It’s not like it would help you any. It’d just get me in trouble if someone was watching the security feed.” The guy didn’t sound like he was shutting Stiles down, though. More like he was asking for a good excuse.

“What if I told you those things you said aren’t the only things that could happen?”

The guy breathed out a soft snort, finishing up with Derek, wiping the injection site _again_ , as if he’d forgotten that werewolves didn’t need to keep wounds clean. As close as the guy was, Derek felt the soft puff of air he let out before he answered.

“I’d tell you that you have no idea what you’re talking about.” But he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

“Can you get access to those cameras? If you cut me loose, I swear you’ll like what you see.”

“Oh, I will be watching. I mean, it’s probably just going to be your death I’m watching, but I’ll be there.” The affection in his tone was entirely at odds with what he was saying, and Derek wondered if the guy even noticed it.

The guy must have cut Stiles loose before he left, bolting the door shut on his way out. Stiles’ weight on Derek’s legs was a welcome distraction from the way his muscles had started to clench and release involuntarily. The shit that had been pumped into him was laying down burning tracks in his veins. Stiles ran his hands along Derek’s arms and up to his neck, cooling him on contact, drawing out some of the excess energy.

Stiles cradled Derek’s face and lifted his head gently, dipping his head down to search Derek’s eyes. “You with me big guy? They got the jump on us, didn’t they? I mean, in our defense, they _were_ professionals. We're junior league, at best. Wish I could do more for the shakes you got, there. This would have been so much easier if you hadn’t gotten all dictatorial on my mojo, dude.”

The new drugs were finally burning off the effects of the sedative. It wasn’t comforting, but it meant that at least he could form words. “I don’t need your _mojo_ , Stiles. You need to be using that to get the hell out of here.”

There was a bit more gravel in it than he had intended, but maybe it helped to illustrate his point. Derek’s whole body was starting to tighten with a force he was familiar with. His fangs were itching to drop and the need to rend and dominate was making itself known. Stiles was either oblivious or willfully ignoring the impending danger. Knowing him, it was likely the latter. Definitely the latter, given the breathless way he was grinning.

“Using my mojo to get us out of here is _exactly_ what I’m doing here, Derek. Like I said, it would have been easier and I could have made it much less memorable for you, but noooo, you had to be all boss-man with your boss-man _don’t ever do that again_ voice…”

“Stiles, if you don’t get the fuck out of here, _now_ the only thing that’s going to happen is me ripping you –”

“No, see, that’s not going to happen.”

As if to prove Stiles' point, the truck hauling them rumbled to life and they started moving.

Stiles was completely convinced he was telling the truth.  Derek might have found some relief in that if it weren’t for the way his fangs had dropped and whole face had shifted. He growled hot, tight, and loud instead, hoping that if words weren’t going to work, then giving in to the impulses beginning to shred his higher functions might.

It didn’t, of course. Stiles tipped Derek’s head up mid-growl and kissed him instead. He was rough and careless, pushing up against Derek, licking into his mouth with a reckless abandon that had him nicking himself against a fang or two. Derek’s senses were flooded with the taste and feel of Stiles, so that for a few seconds all he could think to do was kiss back with equal abandon.

It only lasted a few seconds, though, before he pulled his head back, glaring at Stiles. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but didn’t let go. “Gee, I don’t know, Derek. I mean, I might have some theories, but bear with me for a second and tell me, how do you feel now?”

He was about to open his mouth to bite out some answer along the lines of _I feel like ripping your throat out_ , but then he realized that wasn’t entirely true. At least not right at that very moment. Stiles’ hands still felt cool and soothing at his throat. The burn raging through him had banked and settled, at least for a moment. He could still feel the pressure building right under his skin and knew it wasn’t going to last, but for that very second, he felt better, if not fine.

Stiles was smirking, not waiting for an answer. It was pretty obvious anyway. Derek’s fangs had receded completely and his body had stopped twitching like he was being tazed. Stiles leaned back in, softly this time, running his nose up along his throat before settling his mouth inches from his ear.

“This is _my jam_ , Derek. I can take care of this. Let me take care of you.” It was a whisper, felt in breaths on the shell of his ear as much as it was heard.

But Derek couldn’t help the hesitation, the small twitch back and away. Stiles stopped as well, pulling nearly all his weight off of Derek’s legs and running a hand through his hair.

“Ah, fuck. Sorry. Just got carried away there. Keep forgetting that just because we dreamt it doesn’t mean you really want it.”

Derek shook his head as he cut Stiles off, fighting not to lose his words. “No, it’s not that I don’t… or I couldn’t… I mean, I’m into you just fine…”

And didn’t he feel a rare breed of overgrown high-school. But it needed to be said. If they were going to have to do this, if this was the only way Stiles could work his magic and keep them both alive, well. It wouldn’t be any kind of hardship for Derek. But that wasn’t really the point, was it? There was only one point it boiled down to.

“You shouldn’t _have_ to, okay? You should only do it because you want to, you shouldn’t ever _have_ to do this. That’s not right. It’s not fair to you.”

Derek wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but the shit-eating grin that lit up Stiles’ face wasn’t it. “Oh, this isn’t a matter of _have to_ , Derek. I mean, I get the most juice out of it this way, but there’s other ways I can make it work, and I will, if you really _don’t_ want to get nasty with me. But, I mean, if defending my virtue is really the only problem for you, I think maybe you need to broaden your perspective enough to realize that this here is an opportunity to thwart our enemy _through the use of orgasms_ , Derek. It’s not every day you get to fuck for the greater good, dude. Why the hell would I not _want_ that? I mean, _do you even know me_?”

Stiles took Derek’s face between his hands again, landing a gentle kiss on his lips, pulling out of him a tension that had been feathering up the base of his skull, and Derek let out a soft sigh. There were reasons. He knew that there were reasons why _No_ could be the only appropriate answer, but none of them seemed to be coming to mind. Probably because most of them _did_ revolve around defending Stiles’ virtue.

Stiles spoke into the air that hung between them. “I doesn’t have to _be_ anything. It doesn’t have to mean anything. But if you don’t want to do this, you need to tell me now, because you really aren’t going to be able to talk for much longer, are you?”

Stiles was right. Tremors had started turning into shudders and his vision was shifting like a strobe. He couldn’t imagine what his eyes looked like. And no, he was definitely not in his right mind, certainly not in any frame of mind to be making decisions, but Stiles was _right there_ , his hands a cool pressure, banking the heat that was starting to burn him out from the inside. And he smelled so good. So. Damned. Good.

Derek closed the last few inches himself, straining against the ropes to reach him. To kiss him back just as softly before diving in again, tasting him, breathing him in and letting himself get lost in Stiles. Derek’s hands ached to feel him, he yearned to wrap himself around Stiles, but when he pulled against the ropes again, Stiles pressed his arms back.

Stiles was panting, shaking his head as he rested his forehead against Derek’s. “Not yet. I’m gonna make you come first, okay?”

There was probably a technical reason for it, but Stiles hand’s were already drifting down his flanks and Derek could only think that it sounded like a great idea. He nodded rapidly and Stiles grinned carnivorously as he slid his hands under Derek’s shirt, running them up over his bare skin, thumbing at his nipples, and _good lord_ , the kid hadn’t even gotten his hands past his waistline and Derek was already whining breathlessly, writhing out to meet those hands running cool sparks under his skin, pulling up goosebumps and shivers everywhere Stiles grazed.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to beg or start cussing by the time he dipped both hands down, the backs of his knuckles grazing over his tightened belly, sliding together to tease at his cock before he undid the snap and zipper. Derek would have been beyond frustrated with the teasing if he hadn’t chanced a look up and caught Stiles, licking his lips, mouth open on a pant and just as lost to this as Derek was.

He looked enraptured when he pulled Derek’s jeans open just enough to pull his cock out, biting his lip like it was some sort of treasure, and Derek had no idea what to make of it before his mind whited out completely with the feeling of Stiles’s fingers running sparks along the shaft. Stiles spit straight on to the crown of Derek’s dick, running his palm over it, sliding his grip down slick and tight.

He kept his strokes long and steady, Derek’s hips rising in time, letting out something close to whimper with how damned near perfect the pressure and friction were, how sure his grip was, how devastating it felt every time Stiles toyed with him, running his thumb under the ridge and swiping it over the head. Stiles didn’t stop jacking as he surged forward, kissing and biting his way over Derek’s throat and collar.

Derek was riding the edge, hips completely off the ground and thrusting steadily in to Stiles’ fist, and he would be begging Stiles to let him come if he could find any words. As it was, all he could do was tuck his head into Stiles’ neck and whine. Stiles brought one hand up to the back of his neck and squeezed, voice steadier and deeper than Derek had expected.

“S’okay. I got you. Ready? Here we go…”

And there was that pull again. This time he could feel it concentrated in Stiles’ hands at the base of his neck and stripping his cock. Something electrical and sharp, running up and down his spine until he came with a bone-rattling shudder, shout bursting out of him unbidden, head thrown back and body tight and jerking from it.

In the euphoria of post orgasm high, he could feel the Boost quite clearly, practically see the tidal wave of raw power and energy it was generating. Except now he could recognize it for what it was. After all, ill-advised and short-lived as his term may have been, he _had_ been an Alpha before. Although the force closing in on him was unnaturally massive, unnaturally strong, and was going to overwhelm his higher brain functions _hard_ and _soon_ , he felt a lot more like he was riding the high instead of being incapacitated by it.

When he could finally see clearly again, Stiles was grinning his most wicked, licking come off of his wrist, eyes bright and alive and shinning like pennies. “Those assholes have no idea what they’re in for, Der.”

He thought maybe his grin was matching, maybe even a little more carnivorous as he welcomed in the first hard push of power. The last thing he remembered clearly was Stiles’ laughed out _Hell yeah_ as he snapped the ties off his arms and lunged forward to wrap himself around the kid, tackling him to the ground.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But Stiles was wily. And damned quick. And much, much stronger than he looked. Stiles could take care of himself. He could do that and take care of Derek, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, I upped the rating. Not entirely sure we reached explicit levels entirely, but better safe than sorry.
> 
> And thank you for being such patient dears. Enjoy!

Derek wasn’t going to hurt Stiles. It took a moment or two of being immersed in the rush to realize that. At least, not hurt in the tearing-limb-from-limb sense. And he was still somewhat cognizant of the fact that Stiles was a relatively fragile being. A fragile being that smelled of lightning and dried saps, resinous and thick, frankincense, amber, copal, myrrh. His senses were overtaken by this shifting smell, nearly driven to distraction.

He _wanted_ Stiles. No surprise there.

Wanted to bite him, wanted to pin him down and _take_ , wanted to sink his teeth into the back of Stiles’ neck and _hold him there_ , so Stiles would be _his_ and _safe_ , finally fucking _safe_.

But Stiles was wily. And damned quick. And much, much stronger than he looked. Stiles could take care of himself. He could do that and take care of Derek, too. He’d let Derek push him down and hold him there by the back of his neck, but the minute claws or fangs came out he was _gone_. The first time Derek did it, Stiles decked him and then _devoured_ his mouth, licking out any traces of blood.

It wasn’t as hard as he might have expected to keep his claws to himself. The breath-stealing sight of Stiles under him, pushing back to meet Derek’s hard thrusts, _fucking himself_ on Derek’s cock was all the motivator he would ever need.

And Stiles gave as good as he got, turning them around when Derek was still lax after his orgasm, pulling Derek up and pushing into him.  Derek's back was pressed up against Stiles’ chest as they kneeled. Stiles had one arm crossing Derek’s chest, his hand clamped down on Derek's shoulder, thumb resting on his throat with a light pressure, just so Derek knew it was there. He fucked Derek slowly, deeply and thoroughly, toying with Derek’s dick and keeping him on the edge until Derek was a shuddering mess, completely melted into Stiles’ body.

He wasn’t sure exactly how many times they came. He knew they were both filthy with it, He could smell the sex-funk even through the constantly evolving and overwhelming scents Stiles was putting out. Stiles' scent was getting sharper, hotter, like cinnamon and fire. Derek could feel Stiles pulling energy from both of them, building it into something, not just siphoning power from an overloaded Derek.

He wasn’t sure how long this lasted. Wasn’t sure if he passed out or dozed off at some point. He’d crashed when the artificial push of the drugs he’d been filled with started to taper off. Woke up with a start as Stiles gave his shoulder a little shake, vaguely surprised to realize that he was sitting crosswise in Stiles' lap, cradled like a napping child.

Stiles had a sleepy smile and eyes that nearly glowed with that brass and copper shine. Derek could smell Stiles’ exhaustion, detectable even through the indescribably complex smell of potent, living magic that was surrounding them. There was a spell hanging on the edge of becoming. Derek had never known such a thing before, but he didn’t doubt that this was what it was.

His voice was raw, and Derek’s spent dick gave a brave twitch, picturing the reasons why, picturing Stiles drawing Derek down his throat, his eyes rolling back when Derek’s dick hit the back of his throat like it was the best thing that he’d ever felt.

Stiles’ hand feathering lightly across Derek’s chest brought him back to the present.  “Hey, big guy. Sorry to wake you, I know you’re crashing and all, but–”

“Do you need blood?”

Stiles stiffened in surprise. “What?”

Derek shifted a little, hoping he wasn’t crossing some sensitive line, and absolutely not up for that shit. “For the spell. You’ve almost got it, right? So, do you need blood? Would that help?”

Stiles shook his head a little, watching his fingers brush across Derek’s chest. “No. Nothing that drastic, I swear. But you’re right, I do need just a little more.”

Derek nodded, tried to wake himself up a bit. “Right. What do you need?”

Stiles’ hand started sliding down in lower and lower circles as he smiled a little. “I just need you to come, okay? Just one more time?”

Derek laughed a little and tried to shake his head. “Are you sure? I might be easier just to take the bloo–”

But he’d come already. He hadn’t even been entirely hard when Stiles ran just a few fingers over his cock. He hardened in one breath and came with a gasp that was more of a sigh than anything. It didn’t hurt, felt smooth like a yawn or a good stretch. He’d though it was going to be a lot more difficult than that.

_“Come.”_

That was Stiles’ voice in Derek’s ear, and Derek was about to point out that he already had when he registered the _weight_ of the word. It had a pull like gravity, and Stiles wasn’t looking at him, he was looking up at a corner of the trailer, at what must have been a security camera.

Derek could feel a small portion of the spell unspool in that direction, felt the rest settle close in around them where they sat, in what Derek realized was the darkest corner of the trailer.

Stiles dropped his nose against Derek’s cheek and spoke in breathy whispers, puffs of breath hitting Derek's face. “Okay. They won’t be able to see us. If we stay in the shadows, they could be right in front of us and they won’t be able to see us. They can hear us, though, and I don’t know if the trailer has a mike, so we have to stay quiet. And they could feel us if they bumped into us. We don’t move or make a sound until I say we do, okay?”

Stiles’ spell, Stiles should definitely be calling the shots. After all, he was the one who best understood the parameters of the magic he was working. Derek, Alpha and all, was completely down with riding shotgun on that one. He felt like he’d gone feral and had run for a week straight. He was ready to kill things where they stood, sure. Anything more nuanced than that would require the talents of someone still on speaking terms with their executive functions.

So Derek didn’t move. Remained surprisingly calm as the trailer rumbled to a stop. He heard footsteps and an argument, one person shouting to stop, that it wasn’t safe, while several others shouted him down. Derek could pick out the voice of the guy who gave him the shot in the chorus, shouting the loudest of them all. He was the first through the door, coming a few steps in and then stopping short, bumped into by the guys that were following.

And then there was chaos. Complete an utter chaos as everyone present flipped their shit. Stiles and Derek didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, and no one came within a foot of their spot. Eventually the shit show all piled back outside to watch the video feed, leaving the trailer door hanging open.

Stiles and Derek dropped out into the night, sliding along shadows. They were in the back lot of some long abandoned roadside service station. Stiles pulled them to a dark corner of the building, handing Derek his pants and pulling on his own. Usually being naked didn’t affect Derek one way or the other, but on this particular night he was pretty grateful for them.

“Okay,” Stiles whispered, “Now we just wait for them to leave and head home.”

“ _Head home?_ Just like that? What, on foot?”

Stiles shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You still have your wallet, dumbass. Between your credit card and my half-functioning brain, I think we could figure something out.”

It was a sound plan.

Except.

Except once the trappers had hauled out a high-powered flashlight and established beyond a doubt that yes, the trailer was empty, the boss pulled a gun from his waistband and shot the medic dead on the spot.

His voice carried in the stark silence that followed. “Dump him in the woods and get ready to go. We’re going back. This time we’re taking down the whole damned pack.”

Neither of them gasped, although it was a close thing. Both of them tensed like coiled springs, though, and Derek couldn’t hold back an urgent _“Stiles.”_

Stiles gave a hard nod and pulled Derek along, edging closer to the vehicles. “Take out the tires. That way they can’t leave.”

“And then?” Derek knew what he intended, but he guessed it was good if they were at least on the same page on this one.

“We kill them. None of them leave here. Ever.”

It was exactly what he’d been hoping to hear. And exactly the kind of thing that really made all that fresh Alpha blood sing in his ears.

Stiles pointed a sharp finger at Derek’s ear-to-ear grin. “You keep your shit together, you hear? _Do not_ get yourself shot or otherwise killed because you’re a hothead, got it?”

Derek hadn’t thought it was possible, but was pleased to find he could grin even wider as he ducked down and ran through the parking lot, claws out and chasing the shadows.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Stiles gave a soft huff as he crouched down next to Derek. “See? this is why I should be allowed to carry grenades on my person at all times.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: for gore

Taking out all the tires he could reach was the easy part. No one had a clue they were around, no one was expecting an attack. But the trappers circled the wagons damned quick when they realized all the cars were starting to lean. There wasn’t much scrambling.

Given that they were all trained professionals and had just watched one of their colleagues get murdered for incompetence, it wasn’t exactly a surprise. What Derek did find impressive was just how many grown men you could cram into an executive hunter’s SUV with the right incentive.

Stiles gave a soft huff as he crouched down next to Derek. “See? this is why I should be allowed to carry grenades on my person at all times.”

Pointing out that said grenades would have been taken off his person when they were captured was a pointless endeavor. Stiles was well aware, and it wouldn’t slow his argument for a second.

Derek just smirked and tilted his head instead, “What, can’t you shoot fireballs now? What kind of a fairy are you?”

Stiles raised a finger with a breath but then stopped himself short, gathering up a deeper breath before hissing out a fast whisper. “Okay, first? Fuck you. And second? Oh, yeah. Fuck you. And third? Shouldn’t you be listening to whatever the hell those assholes are planning?”

He had been, with half an ear. So far the extent of planning had been a bunch of grown men having a collective meltdown in a small enclosed space. Lots of noise. Not a lot of coherence.

Derek shrugged a single shoulder, having managed to hold on to the smirk. And yes, for the record, he knew just how much that smirk fucked with Stiles, infuriating him and turning him on in equal measure. “They’re in there freaking out.”

He let the tensions ease for a minute before turning to Stiles again. “Really, though. What can you do, in terms of combat?”

Stiles had been wearing a wicked knife when Derek had pulled him out of the fey realm. He had no doubt they’d taught him things. And the fey played hard and dirty. It was a legitimate question, and thankfully Stiles chose to see it as such.

Stiles gave a half-shrug of his own. “Mostly close-quarters. I can do a lot of damage if I can touch someone, but I need that contact.”

Derek flashed back to that moment in the woods, the sound of a man breaking as though he were made of matchsticks. Tried and failed to suppress a small shudder and Stiles side-eyed him hard enough that Derek could feel it. No doubt, he knew exactly what Derek had been thinking about.

“It’s not quite that graphic anymore. A lot more efficient. Can’t throw fireballs. This hiding spell is just about the most I can  _throw_. But I’m good if I can get my hands on them.”

Derek gave a terse nod and kicked out into the light, hissing as he left. “I’ll make sure they’re looking at me, then.”

He could tell Stiles would have been bitching him out if there wasn’t a need for silence, but the bastards in the car were unearthing a set of infrared binoculars which meant both of them were about ten seconds away from fucked and he’d rather not be standing in a nice little grouping when the men with the guns finally got a bead on them.

He didn’t have time for niceties like plans or strategies or _words_ for that matter. His only hope was that he and Stiles had been at this long enough that Stiles could tell the difference between Derek being a surly bitch and Derek scrambling. He thought maybe Stiles got it, although he did hiss out _bitch_ loud enough for Derek to hear as he cut out in the opposite direction, hugging the darkest part of the lot to circle around behind the car.

The SUV got eerily silent when they spotted Derek running across the well-lit lot and exploded into a frenzy of movement right about when Derek dove into the bushes at the overgrown tree line. He changed course the minute he hit the shadows, keeping as much vegetation as possible between himself and the group, mindful that someone might have remembered to bring the infrared.

Their attention was still fixed on the point Derek had slipped into the dark when a sharp shout froze everyone. All eyes were on the man who’d shouted as he stumbled into a pool of light and collapsed, blood pooling around him with alarming speed. The man looked to be covered in cuts. His heart had slowed to a stop within seconds of having slumped to the ground.

It took another shout from another corner of the group to destroy all sense of cohesion amongst the men. They scattered. A couple of them slammed back into the car, the rest ran in every direction, one directly into Derek’s arms. He took care of that one quickly and set out after the rest, the tide having turned from _hide_ to _hunt_ , and it was all the bloodthirsty satisfaction his newly-minted Alpha state could have asked for.

Except.

Except he’d forgotten about the infrared, forgotten that these were hunters, forgotten that some of them were likely experienced enough that they might pull themselves together after an initial shock. Forgotten the assholes in the car. Forgotten about bullets, and really, of all his sins, that one was likely the most egregious.

One of the car windows exploded outward and Derek was ripped open, covered in puncture wounds that burned with an unforgiving grip that was all too familiar. Buckshot. Buckshot coated in wolfsbane, not just one wound but dozens upon dozens, all on fire and driving him to his knees.

He’d just taken a wolfsbane infused shotgun blast in the chest. It wasn’t the sort of cause of death that got listed in cautionary tales, but he knew he wasn’t going to walk away from that one.

He heard Stiles’ shout and felt sure hands catching him before he hit the ground. Everything took a sickening lurch and Derek’e eyes snapped open to find himself somewhere _else_ , somewhere blindingly white and disconcerting, with Stiles still behind him, easing him back up on to his feet.

He shouldn’t have been capable of standing. Hell, he wasn’t sure he should have been breathing at that point, and the evidence was still there, his chest ripped open with a fist-sized hole in the center, blood blackening into sludge, but oddly not running, not pouring out of him like it should have been.

“What the fuck?” His throat felt like it had been coated in gravel, likely from pellets embedded in it, but it was still his voice, and he was unreasonably relieved to hear it.

Stiles’ hand on the back of his collar tightened a bit before he moved round to face Derek. “It’s… we’re in this in-between place, where I go when I jump. I can slow time down when I’m here, they taught me how. Not supposed to be able to drag anybody else along, though. I mean, I can jump you, but usually you’d just pop out and back wherever I landed.”

“So why am I here?” It was an obvious question to an obvious lead-in, and usually Derek hated that shit, but it looked like Stiles practically needed a Heimlich Maneuver to spit the rest out.

“No joke, Derek, you’re in bad shape. The only reason you can be here is because you’re literally on the cusp between alive and dead. And I don’t mean like, maybe he’ll live, maybe he’ll die. I mean, you _are_ dying. Just not quite dead yet.”

It wasn’t news to him, but it didn’t make him feel any better to hear it out loud. Made him kind of want to lay down for a minute, but something in the way Stiles was biting his bottom lip and raking his eyes over him with a furious intensity kept him standing.

“I told you not to get shot, Derek. Didn’t I tell you that?”

Derek wasn’t sure if he managed a shrug, but he tried his best for it.

Stiles huffed, running a hand through his hair, but the way his eyes were darting from point to point in their non-existent landscape had Derek thinking he was far from done.

He held his hands out after a sharp nod. “Okay, I think I know how I can do this. Not gonna lie – it’s going to suck for you. But I’m pretty sure it would suck less than dying from a wolfsbane buckshot injury. And you won’t have to die at the end of it, which, hey! Might not suck.”

Derek gave half a nod and that inward hand wave that was universal for _come at me_. Stiles snorted on a half-grin and shook his head for a second before taking a flying leap across the scant few feet between them, landing on Derek with both hands on his shoulders, shoving with the force of his entire body.

It lasted no time. It might have lasted nanoseconds, he wasn’t sure, but it felt like they were rocks skipping water, dropping for one violent second back to reality, tripping backwards on the tarmac on his way down, his ass making contact with the weird in-between and nothing ground, which still managed to be hard and fucking cold.

Somewhere between the tarmac and nowhere, Derek blossomed with a new injury. He felt like he’d been cut open from groin to throat, could feel his body stitching up the wound in slow motion, was pretty sure it wasn’t just a product of his dying mind.

Stiles had leapfrogged over him as Derek fell to the ground, but spun around a moment later, straddling Derek and settling on his thighs. His smile was tight, that forced rictus he got whenever they were careening off the rails on some half-brained Hail Mary. It might have stolen his breath if Derek hadn’t already lost it somewhere back with all the pain and dying he was doing.

Stiles leaned to the side and pointed to a spot behind them that was spattered in Derek’s blackened blood. “Hey look, it worked! I got rid of the shot. Or left the shot behind, if you want to get technical. I mean, sure, I had to almost-kill you some more to get you back here, but that’s gonna heal, I swear.”

The pellets were out, but that didn’t mean the wolfsbane was gone with them. Derek could feel the shit in every one of those holes that had been dug out of him. There was no way Stiles was going to be able to stuff each one of them with ash in time to save him, the poison was too close to his heart. He could feel the cold, could feel it pulling his eyes shut.

Stiles gave him a sharp shake, dragging him back. “Hey! Hey, no Derek, you’re not gonna want to be asleep for this next one, I promise. This is one of the first tricks I learned. The only trick I _made_ them teach me, and I really want to show it off.”

Stiles’ eyes were back to that unfamiliar metal, this time shining like burnished gold, his teeth a bit sharper than Derek could remember. He looked the least human than Derek had ever seen, and even though he was nearly dead, he wanted to pull that face in and taste those fangs. Instead, he settled for giving Stiles his rapt attention. Which seemed to suit Stiles just fine.

“So, I’m showing off my trick, okay? And, like, saving that gorgeous ass of yours for future generations to admire. But I’m _not_ doing this for you, get it? This _isn’t_ as a favor to you. It’s a favor to _me_. Because I don’t think I can live in a world without that gorgeous cock of yours in it, even if I should never get to play with it again.”

Derek would have thought this was just more of Stiles being the unmitigated asshole he sometimes couldn’t resist being, if it wasn’t for the word _favor_. As in, not something you ever really wanted to owe a fey creature. And if that favor was your life, it was probably a huge fucking deal, one that Stiles wanted nothing to do with.

So he got it, and although he wasn’t sure if fey accounting worked this way, he nodded with a small shake and growled out, “Stiles, I don’t owe you a damned thing.”

Stiles’ grin cracked into a full-blown carnivorous smile as he bobbed his head. “Yeah, that’s right. Glad you’re following along. Okay, here goes.”

He rucked Derek’s shirt up and slicked his hand with Derek's putrid blackened blood, grimacing as he licked some of it off, coughing a little from the taste, bitching under his breath about how gross that was before cupping his hands and blowing on to them as if he were stoking a flame.

His face started glowing as if he had been holding coals before he pulled back and held his hands out. They were glowing as if they _were_ coals. The look on Stiles’ face was one of near-rapture as he laid his hands on Derek’s torso and started stroking into every wound.

The pain was terrible and Derek wanted to curl up and sob but he couldn’t. Couldn’t make a sound or single movement under the stroke of those hands, pinned to the ground as if he were made of lead until Stiles leaned over him and breathed into his ear.

“It’s done. We have to leave. You can’t come back here anymore, understand?”

Derek managed a single sobbing gasp, feeling clean wounds start to spill blood as the ground beneath him softened into leaves and dirt and the world around him resolved back into the inky darkness that came of hiding under a bush.

Stiles had a hand locked over Derek’s mouth and Derek was grateful for it, his body convulsing with the intensity of his healing. But the pain was sharp and hot and living, and as much as he would have liked to have been screaming yet again, he welcomed it in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, kids! I fell down a deep dark hole and there was no light with which to write. Hopefully we can take this chapter as a sign of things improving!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was careful. He was methodical. He did not let his hands shake and he_ did not think _as he gathered up other necessary items._

“Hey… so…. how you feelin', old man?” It was a croaked whisper that hit his ear with as much air as sound as Stiles eased himself down on to the loam beside him.

There was a wheezing to it that Derek didn’t like. At all. And the hand that slipped off his mouth felt oddly cold and clammy. It had him locking in on Stiles’ face with all his Alpha senses. There was a wet quality to Stiles’ breathing. His grin looked darker than it should have. He could smell the blood that covered his lips. Nothing life threatening, but nothing good, either.

Stiles kind of nodded and shook his head at the same time. “So, yeah. This isn’t gonna kill me but I am gonna pass out for a while, I think. That means the spell’s gonna die. The spell makes interference, as soon as it dies they’re gonna have cell reception. They’re going to drop a whole army on us if they manage to make a call. So, I mean, I hope you’re feeling up for it, but you have to either stop them or get us the fuck out of here. I vote run like hell, but you’d be the one carrying me, soo….”

Derek twisted sinuously, turning to face Stiles full on but staying below the bush line. Adrenaline and other choice chemicals started flooding his system enough for him to realize that he was, in fact, healed. Felt far more whole than he had a right to. There was no way he was going to waste that.

He couldn’t help but grin with his fangs, causing Stiles to roll his eyes, even half-gone as he was. “I vote we do both.”

“Yeah. Of course you do. Guess you better get right on that, then –” Stiles interrupted himself with a quiet but wet cough that ended with him turning his head and hacking out a mouthful of blood.

Derek reached forward, “ _Shit_ , Stiles…”

Stiles held a hand up to Derek’s face. “ _Get the fuck out of here_ , Derek. It’s not going to kill me. _Those_ fuckers intend to.”

True, but it aggravated Derek to hell and back that there wasn’t more he could do. He piled that little morsel of anger up on top of the metric fuckton of rage he’d managed to develop for those fucking asshole trappers and _burst_ out of the shrubbery, like a proper werewolf. Amped to hell and back, capable of taking in massive amounts of sensory data and moving fast.

Let us not forget fast.

He was a blur to human eyes, even without magical assistance. Of course, it was also easier in that only four of them were left standing. Well, sitting, as Derek made a few passes and herded them into the car. He acted on his wolf impulses and played on their hunter instincts, moving around them from cover to cover, surrounding them, carefully closing in. He hoped it was distracting enough to keep them from checking for a cell signal they’d no doubt already checked a hundred times before.

He even came in close a few times, swiping the SUV they were in. He stayed low and the potshots missed him entirely, and it was even possible that none of them realized that he’d jammed the doors on those passes. They were going to have a hell of a time getting out of there.

Derek was counting on the men’s hardened assumption that when hunting like this a ‘were was out of his mind and not thinking clearly. Maybe this was the case for a wolf who never had to fight for his survival, the stress of it could easily drive anyone into a mind-blank state. But this was in no way Derek’s first rodeo.

He assessed his environment. Managed to find a gun that still had bullets. And rounding back behind a pickup spotted the way out with a dawning realization that made his mind slip into a white haze and had him moving slick as ice as he grabbed the gas can and made his way back around to the SUV.

He was careful. He was methodical. He did not let his hands shake and he _did not_ _think_ as he gathered up other necessary items.

He didn’t toss the gas can under the car, he crept up to the car and slid it under, remaining completely unnoticed. They were busy. One of them had reception for a few seconds. The spell was likely fading in and out, but Derek didn’t need much more time anyway. He kept his mind as clear as glass as he crouched behind a concrete half-wall and unloaded the remainder of the clip in his gun into the plastic gas can.

It didn’t spark with something and instantly explode, but he hadn’t been counting on that anyway. He’d grabbed a flare for that. It was bright. It lit up the faces of the men in the car, desperately heaving on the doors as they watched the flare arc toward them. The car went up with a growling _fwosh_ and as Derek stood there making sure no one got out, he _didn’t think_ , and his hands _didn’t shake_ as he waited down the heartbeats.

He turned the second he was sure the men were dead. Made it as far as Stile’s still-prone form before he fell to his knees and puked.

_“Holy shit, Derek.”_

Stiles was awake. From the way his heart was rabbiting, he’d been awake long enough that he knew exactly what just happened. Derek cracked his neck in a way that he hoped emphatically communicated _hell no, not now, not fucking ever,_ shifted to a Beta form, and tugged Stiles up.  Derek figured he could crawl into a damp cave and gnaw on rabbit fur for a week or two and have a proper freak-out at some later date. For the immediate, they needed to get the fuck out of there and fast, given the kind of attention a car fire at an abandoned gas station would get.

Derek threw Stiles over a shoulder and ran. Tried to be grateful about the fact that Stiles had passed out again and couldn’t bitch about how Derek’s shoulder was digging into his gut, but couldn’t really manage it. He moved through the night, avoiding the roads, trudging through crop fields and aiming for a green band that marked a river and the vegetation cover it provided. He tucked them into the trees and kept walking, following along the riverbank.

Eventually they stumbled on a dusty patch of civilization and Derek tucked them under a small bridge, letting himself pass out completely to the sound of Stiles’ evened-out heartbeat. The last waking sensation he registered was Stiles tugging him in close and holding him hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you are being so patient with me, lovelies, and I'm so glad you're still with me!  
> I know this is a short one, but that was just because it became two chapters, so don't fret, the next chapter will be posted momentarily.  
> : )


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Yeah… two grown men wearing nothing but blood-spattered jeans, walking along a country road at night, that’s not gonna look suspicious."_
> 
>  
> 
> _“Oh, you think?” Really, the eye roll he added in was a necessary part of that sentence, but Derek didn’t want to push it. At least there was some focus happening._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PTSD trigger warning

_“Holy shit, Derek.”_

It sounded like Stiles was going to pick up the conversation right where they left off. At least they’d gotten a few hours sleep and his voice sounded a lot less rough. Derek didn’t need to open his eyes to lay a heavy palm right over Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles tugged it back off with a couple gentle pulls. “Seriously, you do realize that you’re going to have to talk about this, don’t you?”

Derek’s voice was rough and tight, no surprise given the way he was clamping his jaw down. “Yeah, maybe someday. _You do realize_ that by now there’s probably an APB out for anything that looks weird within a fifty-mile radius of that service station, _don’t you?_ Maybe we could shelve the heart to hearts for when we’re actually safe, you think?”

Stiles turned his head away, but not fast enough that Derek didn’t feel him snort out a half-laugh against his cheek before he pulled away.

“Oh yeah, sure. The minute you hit dry ground Derek, you’re gonna run for the hills. Nobody will see you for a week or so and then you’ll suddenly show up, and it’s like _whatever_ never really happened. It’s creepy. I pray for the little woodland creatures.”

Derek huffed himself. “They’re overpopulated _vermin_. They don’t deserve your tears. Now could we just _fucking focus_ , here?”

Derek could feel Stiles’ grin as they extricated themselves from the tangle they’d formed and stumbled into the night. The barest hint of light was coloring the eastern horizon, but they could make out a highway that the road they’d been hiding under led to.

They were somewhere in the fertile crescent that was central California, but outside of that, he had no clue where. Just miles and miles of crops and orchards, as far as he could tell. So. A bit far for a walk back to Beacon Hills, but that made sense; they’d been in that trailer for hours. Definitely too far to walk, unless they were staging an impromptu pilgrimage. At least he’d managed to hold on to his wallet and they wouldn’t have to resort to begging to get home.

Stiles stretched for a second and bounced on his toes, taking a look at both of them. “Yeah… two grown men wearing nothing but blood-spattered jeans, walking along a country road at night, that’s not gonna look suspicious.”

“Oh, you think?” Really, the eye roll he added in was a necessary part of that sentence, but Derek didn’t want to push it. At least there was some focus happening.

There wasn’t much around, a few barns and farm houses tucked into tree-breaks, and thankfully, a church right at the crossroads with the highway. They had a clothes-donation drop box in the corner of the parking lot, just a big plywood box, locked shut with a padlock.

Stiles regaled Derek with sermons about asking and receiving until Derek threw a vaguely odd-smelling worn out t-shirt in his face. There might have been a threat or two in there as well, but dammit all, he was tired and Stiles really just needed to shut the fuck up.

They found some clothes that fit, a pair of sweats, a pair of shorts and a couple t-shirts. Worn out and vaguely dirt-stained, but that was camouflage. The shoe situation wasn’t so simple, but they did find a pair of flip-flops that Stiles could manage to keep on his feet most of the time.

Derek dropped a five into the box. They probably could use it themselves, but he felt a little bad about busting their lock. He could feel his shoulders tense as Stiles watched, just waiting for some sort of comment, but Stiles just tightened his lips and looked away with a small nod.

After changing in some bushes they meandered down the road, hampered by Stiles’ flops and their collective exhaustion, but the sun had only just crested when they started seeing signs for the interstate. Once there, hitching a ride took some time, what with the light traffic that early in the morning and the fact that they were two guys, but wandering slowly down the road with a thumb out wasn’t exactly taxing.

Eventually they managed to get a lift in the back of someone’s pickup truck. They got dropped off at a truck stop the size of a city block. Stiles picked up a cheap cell phone and Derek got a room in the run-down motel on the lot. No one looked twice at either one of them. They blended in with the rest of the road-rashed and slipped into the darkened safety of their room with tired sighs.

Stiles called his dad. That said something about his state of mind, where he’d normally turn to Scott, or really, anyone _but_ his dad. He must have been pretty shaken up. And if Derek was quiet, watching him without looking right at him, he could see it. The slight tremor in his voice, the way he’d shudder a little from time to time. The way he kept curling and uncurling his toes.

It was subtle. He usually wore shoes that covered his feet, so he probably didn’t even realize that he had that tell. He kept his tone relieved and reassuring and kept his breathing slow through the whole call, ending the call on a laugh before dropping back on the bed with a half-groaned _fuck_.

It struck Derek in that moment, just how good at covering Stiles was. Sure, he was a piss-poor liar, but it was part of that high-energy quirky person he showed the world. Derek thought maybe he knew the darker, colder, methodical and ruthlessly pragmatic creature that hid behind the cheer. Knew him like he knew the taste of his own blood.

In that light, and in the dingy half-light that seeped through the curtains as Stiles stretched on the bed and looked back at him through half-slitted eyes, quiet and speculative, it was hard to see a single thing about him that looked like a child. Like young. Like innocent. He might not have known exactly what events had hardened Stiles, but he knew what he was looking at.

It felt like he was looking at himself after the… just, after.

His heart lurched hard for a second or two and he bolted to the john, feeling his body heave while his mind bathed him with brief flashes, the smell of gasoline, the taste of poisoned blood, the burning ache from the shotgun wound, the look in those men’s eyes as they burned to death. And that smell. The bitter acid tang of plastics and other things that should never burn.  Accelerant fumes.  Grilled meat.  He knew that smell far too damned well.

He was dry heaving between deep gasps. His stomach had been empty for quite a while, but it didn’t seem to stop his body from trying to turn itself inside out for a minute or two. At some point he realized he wasn’t heaving anymore, so much as he was sobbing with deep gasping breaths.

This… this wasn’t the sort of thing that he did. Even if he did cry from time to time, even if he did suffer, it wasn’t like this, snot running down his face, sobbing like a toddler and completely incapable of making it stop. And it was that lack of control that shook him the most, that he couldn’t stop the sounds that were coming from him any more than he could stop the images that were assaulting him. People burning. People suffering. People dying. And nothing he could do.

Stiles’ hand was what pulled him back, warm large and steady in the middle of his back. He rubbed purposefully, slowly with a bit of pressure, squeezing the back of Derek's neck in a way that made Derek loosen and lean into him a bit.  With a shuddery breath Derek finally felt himself calm down.  He tried to wipe his face with his shirt sleeve, but he was pretty much a hopeless mess.

Stiles leaned his head in to rest against Derek’s, talking softly into the room. “Is it too soon to call you a dumbass and tell you that you should fucking listen to me?"

Derek shoved Stiles away with a hand on his face. Stiles laughed as he backed away “Oh, too soon? Okay. That’s okay, I get it.”

Derek rinsed his face and drank straight from the tap before making his way back to the bed and crawling in. He was in no state to argue when Stiles declared him the little spoon and wrapped himself around Derek’s back. It was nice. He didn’t even bother to hide the relieved sigh that hummed out of him. He was asleep between one breath and the next.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’d rattled Scott’s cage. Deliberately. Not for any good reason, but just because he could. He would have liked to have said it was an Alpha thing, but he knew it was really more of an_ asshole _thing._

Derek was on all fours, crouched over Stiles and growling before he even registered the loud knock on the door. No, not knock. It was Scott, _pounding_ on the damned door, yelling Stiles’ name. Stiles tugged himself out from under Derek and shoved him over as he stalked toward the door, yelling back.

“ _For fuck’s sake_ , Scott, calm the fuck down, all right? I’m coming!”

Scott spat back, a little too high-pitched to be considered dignified. “ _Calm down?_ Yeah, sure Stiles, I’ll get right on that, just as soon as you can tell me why this place _reeks of Alpha_.”

Stiles had reached the door and pulled it open. Scott barged in, still talking, barely taking in his surroundings, nose in the air and huffing. Derek wondered if he even realized he was doing it.

“I mean seriously, Stiles, it smells like an Alpha’s been rubbing his balls – oh!” He stalled out when he focused on Derek, for just a second turning into that gangly and awkward teen Derek had kicked off his property not all that very long ago.

Scott rallied bravely, with a small half wave. “Hey, Derek.”

Derek smirked. He knew the picture he cut. He’d lost his shirt at some point in the night, had made it a point to cover his waistband with the sheet so it would look even worse.

He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “What was that you were saying?”

For added effect, he flashed his eyes.

Stiles threw his hands up as he slammed the door shut. “Jesus Fucking Christ on a Goddamned Cracker, _seriously?_ _Seriously, Derek?_ Could you please stop fucking with Scott’s head? And Scott, can you chill the fuck out?”

Derek imagined he could actually hear Scott’s brain short circuit. Definitely worth it.

He laughed and stepped away when Stiles whipped the sheet back, completely done with Derek’s shit. “Look.  _He’s wearing pants._ No one was rubbing their balls anywhere, Scott.  The Alpha’s Derek, okay?  You _know_ Derek.  So everything’s fine.  Can we go home now?”

Derek stepped back, let Stiles get between them, and even if those two didn’t notice, Scott calmed considerably. He’d rattled Scott’s cage. Deliberately. Not for any good reason, but just because he could. He would have liked to have said it was an Alpha thing, but he knew it was really more of an _asshole_ thing. But hell, that jackass had woken him the fuck up, _yet again_ , pounding on his fucking door.

And maybe, just a little, it was an Alpha thing.

But he didn’t want to think about that too much. About the fact that the drugs had worn off and he was in the presence of his own Alpha, facing safe harbor, but Derek remained an Alpha himself. And Derek was the sort of person who could not be an Alpha without having a pack that answered to him. Even if that pack only consisted of one loud-mouthed half-blooded fey.

Scott was going to flip his shit completely when he figured that one out. Derek kind of hoped he’d be there to see it. Not that he harbored the kid any ill will.

Just.

 _Stiles was his_. It was hard to think past that, standing in a small room with the only other Alpha in the universe that could hold a threat to the claim. Hard to remember those sticky, complicated issues like Stiles’ consent and right to self-determination. Or Scott’s merit as a leader. Or the history between those two, and the thousands of reasons why Stiles’ loyalty would always be with Scott.

Derek felt no desire to step down or rescind his claim. Even if he never actually said it out loud, even if the penny never dropped for either of those two and no one ever figured out how Derek was keeping his eyes red. Stiles was his.

He busied himself by pulling his shirt on. He breathed through the tightness in his chest and followed them out to the car. He slouched into the back seat, glad of the sprawl and, on a primal level, that he could keep Scott in his sight-line.

He must have been glowering, if Stiles’ _what the fuck is wrong with you_ look was anything to go by. Clearly, it was going to take a little while for him to adjust to his Alpha state. If only it didn’t perfectly complement his inner asshole, this would be a bit easier. And if he didn’t know that Stiles _liked_ it when Derek was an asshole.

But honestly, that? All of that? Claiming himself Stiles’ Alpha, dividing the pack? Pure and utter suicidal idiocy. Scott would kill him. Stiles’ dad might take a stab at it, if it looked bad enough. Not to mention the basic idea that this weakened Scott, left them all vulnerable while things remained unstable. It was hard to focus on incoming threats when the phantom push of instinct was telling you things weren’t safe in your own home.

A slow hour into things, letting the car stereo drown out the conversation in the front seat, Derek’s mind drifted to a darker place. One that felt warm and familiar, had everything to do with survival and answered only to a bed of ashes. The bare-bones truth of it was that he wasn’t going to let go of the kind of power he just gained. Not without a damned good reason and not without a fight.

He drifted, half asleep as the miles stacked up on each other, but was jarred awake at a change of tone in Scott’s voice. Quiet and urgent. It would have been a whisper if Stiles could have heard that over the engine. Scott probably thought Derek was still asleep, and Derek wasn’t going to do a thing to disabuse him of that notion.

“Your dad couldn’t come ‘cause he had to meet with the Marshals. One of the cars in the lot had gotten a ticket in Beacon Hills a couple days ago, so now they’re trying to tie it all back there.”

Stiles ran a hand through his hair and bit out a tired _fuck_.

“It’s not… That’s not the only thing. They’ve called in the FBI. They’ve got a massacre, people ripped apart, people stabbed to death, people burned to death, a trailer full of jizz, vomit in the tree-line, and basically a metric fuckton of what they like to call _trace evidence_ all over that lot.”

Scott rose his voice, talking over any response Stiles might have had. “Look, I know what you’re going to say- stuff like DNA is gonna take months to process, evidence can get lost or corrupted…” His voice dropped again, took on a shaky edge. “But they spotted the cameras in the trailer and found the video still streaming live on a laptop in another one of the cars. I mean, with the whole way werewolves mess with cameras, it’s kind of grainy and hard to make out faces. But you can make out Derek’s tattoo, easy as anything. And with people that know you… It’s pretty obvious it’s you.”

Stiles’ answer was clogged with tears. “My dad. Did he…”

“Yeah. Yeah, he saw it. He asked Deaton to look it over, figure out what was going on. I saw, like three seconds of it before I figured out what it was and then _I swear_ I walked away. But it was a live feed through a satellite, Stiles. People could have been watching it from anywhere, if they knew where to look.”

Derek couldn’t stop his heart from racing, but Scott had likely forgotten there was such a thing as a back seat, anyway.

“I just… I need to know, for real, dude. Was that… did you… I mean, did he force–”

“No.” Loud and determined, like a shot through the air. “No, Scott. Nobody forced anything, okay? I mean, except for the fucking psycho trappers. But they’re in lots of little pieces, so… yeah.”

Scott sounded a little more determined after a breath. “Would you tell me if you were in trouble, Stiles?”

The gaping pause was a bit too big to look over, but Stiles tried to rally past. “What? I mean, of course, Scott. Who else would I turn to?”

And that right there was probably the moment that Scott remembered he had a back seat.

The rest of the drive was eerily quiet, neither one willing to acknowledge the chasm in their friendship they’d just stumbled into, both too stunned to just get past it, either. It happened sometimes, with those two. Moments when the brutal reality they’d been conscripted into drove a hard wedge into the tender spaces they held between each other.

It wasn’t anything that Derek could relate to, but he had a feeling that whatever held those two together had been eroding well before this moment, and that there may well come a time when they’d be looking at each other as if they were strangers if they didn’t work it out. That was assuming they even got the chance to get that far before they died. Given the relatively short life span of so many around them, it was even odds which would come first.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There were no words, they hardly even exchanged glances before Stiles had Derek fetched up hard against a wall with his whole body, cradling Derek’s face in both hands and holding him still while he fucked his tongue into Derek’s mouth with a hungry, urgent sigh._

By the time they’d all settled into their respective homes, the whole thing had become a media circus. They were calling it the _White Creek Massacre_ , White Creek being the name of the nearby creek and town. And Massacre… well, because it was.

Derek wasn’t exactly surprised. He and Stiles had left one hell of a mess behind them, perfect for a media feeding frenzy. The whole clusterfuck was rife with sensationalist fodder. The sheer size of the crime scene required assistance from all neighboring counties to process, making for more than enough leaks to keep the news and true crime channels rabid with speculation and “expert” opinions.

At first the thought was that this was some sort of gang shootout or organized crime showdown. But then the killings were described. Brutal animalistic maulings in some cases, ritualistic acts in others. And once the names were released, it was discovered that many of the deceased had ties to a militia that had a compound in Nevada, which led to all kinds of rampant speculation about cults and home-grown terrorists, and hours and hours of footage of wide eyed pasty-white neighbor-types spouting some variation of _he seemed like such a nice man._

There was no mention of the damage to the cars or of the video, so the law had at least been able to hold back a few of the details. No named suspects yet, either. No surprise there, getting DNA test results could take weeks if not months, even if they fast-tracked it. But frankly, DNA was the least of Derek’s concerns. Stiles’ wasn’t in any database, and there was so much DNA lying around that anything anomalous the lab picked up in Derek’s samples would likely be chalked up to contamination and discarded.

With the minor involvement of Beacon Hills as an established stop-off point, Stiles’ dad was getting the daily task force bulletins, not to mention all the water cooler talk on the investigation, so Derek was relatively certain that they’d get a head’s up if interest swung in their direction.

It was clear to Derek that the Sheriff wasn’t certain how he felt about any of it.

This was understandable. Stiles and Derek had tripped far past any sane person’s moral compass with the killings, even if they’d had a good reason to. True, they’d done it in defense of his son’s life, but the Sheriff was getting a front-row-seat play-by-play description of the carnage at the crime scene. He had been waiting on the porch when they dropped Stiles off, and although he did thank Derek for protecting his son, his demeanor was so grim it raised the hairs on the back of Derek’s neck.

The Sheriff left the room every time Stiles tried to bring any of it up. This was what Stiles told him in hushed breath the following day as they sat on the Jeep’s tailgate in front of the Dairy Queen and drank milkshakes.

“Said he’d let me know if we became people of interest and lit out like his ass was on fire. He can’t look me in the eye, Derek. But it’s not like he’s angry or disgusted or anything. It’s like he’s scared of me. Like he’s just waiting for me to go off the deep end.”

“Aren’t you?”

Stiles tilted his head and squinted at Derek. “What?”

“Stiles, how many people did you kill that night?” Derek kept his tone as gentle as he could manage, but he knew he hadn’t been the only one due a reckoning.

Stiles fishmouthed for a few seconds before Derek leaned in and bumped their shoulders together. He kept talking, looking off into some middle distance.

“I bet you don’t really even know. I don’t. I don’t even _try_ to figure it out, because if I did, I know I’d go back there. But I’m not the only one who should be puking my guts out in a hotel bathroom, Stiles.”

Stiles’ jaw tightened, eyes locked on his hands. Derek sucked in a breath and spoke into the resounding silence.

“I’m just saying, sooner or later this is going to catch up with you. You need me? You call or come over. _Any. Time. For anything_. Understand?” He surprised himself with the heat in his tone.

Going by Stiles’ half-open mouth, Derek wasn’t the only one surprised. If the pinking of Stiles’ cheeks and little spark in his eyes was anything to by, he liked the tone a little more than he’d like to admit. He rolled his eyes and gave Derek the finger when Derek smirked, and that was a little more life in Stiles than Derek had seen in a while.

Derek felt like he’d only just remembered how to breathe when Stiles loosened, still quiet but calmer, smelling a little less like desperation, fine lines around his eyes smoothing out.

Did he really have no one else to turn to? Was that even possible? Then again, Stiles clearly wasn’t going to be comfortable talking to his dad about this any time soon. And maybe Scott, with all his good intentions and drive to fix things would be the last thing Stiles’ needed while going through a murderer’s existential crisis. Which really did only leave Derek.

Hell, given the amount of time they were spending in each other’s pockets, maybe it should be a given that Derek was there for Stiles. Derek took it as a given that he could turn to Stiles when he needed it. Oddly, he’d done so from the very beginning, not _trusting_ , nothing so intimate, the threats and fangs made that perfectly clear, but even from the start knowing he could turn to that kid, whether to hide him as a fugitive or cut his arm off while he was off his head from a wolfsbane shot.

But he’d never said it out loud, had he? Stiles didn’t even feel confident enough in where they stood to so much as ask him outright for help.

“Seriously, Stiles. If there’s anything you need, you can come to me, understand? Anything at all.”

Derek could see the relief hidden under Stiles’ snarky grin. “Jesus, who died and made you den mother?”

“Stiles, shut the fuck up.”

It went without saying that when he broke, _which he would_ , it would be much better if they could make it a controlled burn. Better for everyone involved. After all, Derek was _intimately_ familiar with what Stiles was capable of. Keeping him on an even keel was imperative. It was his job, as Stiles’ Alpha, or whatever the hell he was, to do anything he could to help Stiles through this.

Which is to say that he should have seen it coming from a mile away, but it still took him by surprise when Stiles was pounding on his door at three in the morning a few days later, smelling of cinnamon and lightning.

There were no words, they hardly even exchanged glances before Stiles had Derek fetched up hard against a wall with his whole body, cradling Derek’s face in both hands and holding him still while he fucked his tongue into Derek’s mouth with a hungry, urgent sigh.

Derek gripped Stiles by the hips and broke the kiss, pulling his head to the side, gasping out “Stiles,” but not in any way certain where he wanted to go with it. He couldn’t stop looking at Stiles’ mouth, all red and slicked.

Stiles didn’t seem to be fairing much better, but he managed to shake his head wildly. “No, no, Derek could we not with the words? I mean, that’s like a dream come true for you, isn’t it? Me, not talking? Putting my mouth to better use?”

They kissed again and under the spice Derek could taste the bitter salt of tears. He could feel the desperation in the trembling fingers on his face. The thing was – Derek knew exactly where Stiles was, had found respite in a good solid fuck himself from time to time. He would be the last person to argue that it was a bad way to let off some steam, given that this was nothing like the junkie heat he'd come after Derek with after his stay with the fey.

And yeah, it kind of was like a dream come true.

The next time it was Stiles who pulled back. Derek wrapped his hand around Stiles’ neck and slid his thumb over the corner of his mouth, slipping in and pressing on Stiles’ tongue. Stiles sucked on it like a promise, letting Derek push him slowly on to his knees. He ran his thumb over Stiles’ lips as he pulled out his cock and jacked himself a couple times.

Stiles was practically panting, mouth open, eyes nearly closed, his whole body stretched and attenuated towards Derek, knees splayed wide and back arched out, but he was staying still, remaining exactly where Derek had put him. It ran a tingle over Derek’s skull and brought out the fangs a bit, to see so much give. Lit a burning hunger in him as well.

When Derek finally fed his cock into his mouth, Stiles’ eyes rolled back and he let out a filthy groan, sucking down and wrapping that _fucking tongue_ around Derek’s cock in ways he swore shouldn’t be possible. And _the look_ on Stiles’ face. Jesus Christ.

“You look completely strung out on my dick, Stiles. Just thought you should know.” 

And yeah, it was a little like Christmas had come early, the way Derek could see Stiles was dying to talk back but couldn’t, his mouth having been put to those _better uses_. He did manage to smirk around Derek’s cock, his eyes flashing for a second, a penny shining in the brown. Derek felt a shuddering trill run up and down his spine, leaving a buzzing warmth in its wake right before Stiles took him down all the way to the root so smoothly it nearly made Derek want to cry.

Stiles held it there, long enough that it had to be burning his lungs before finally pulling back. There were tears slipping out of the corners of his eyes and Stiles kept pushing, barely sucking in enough air to stay conscious, groaning like he was the one getting off and Derek would have thought is was perfect if it wasn’t for the way Stiles was nearly digging into the wall, fingers clawed and tight, like it wasn’t quite enough.

So it wasn’t enough, and Derek wasn’t about to let Stiles choke himself out on his dick to find out what was. He wrapped his hand back around Stiles’ neck and pulled him up, swiveling around and pushing him face-first against the wall. He covered Stiles’ body with his own, grinding his hips into Stiles’ ass hard enough to push him on his toes and into the wall, just to feel Stiles scramble like prey until his hind-brain caught up with Derek’s werewolf speed.

The hiccuped gasp was more like what Derek wanted to hear, Stiles lost in the moment entirely. Derek slipped his hand around Stiles’ throat and squeezed, not hard enough to block his airway, but hard enough to feel it. Hard enough to be close to dangerous.

Stiles was panting again, head thrown back, trying to grind back even though he was pinned to the wall. Derek pulled back, gave himself enough room to slip a hand to Stiles’ front, unbuckling his belt and stripping it off with a flick that may have left a sting.

Derek pushed the belt into Stiles’ mouth. “Bite. If you want to stop, let it go. If you let it go, we stop. Understand?”

Stiles gave a short, tight nod and bit down on the belt, burying his teeth in the leather as if he were a wolf himself. Derek pulled Stiles’ head back against his shoulder while he undid Stiles’ fly, pushing his pants and briefs down with one shove, bunching them up above his knees, sliding his dick into the tight space between Stiles’ thighs, gliding in fairly easily on spit and sweat. He wrapped his arm around Stiles’ waist, holding Stiles tight against his chest.

Stiles canted his hips when he figured out what was going on, tightening his thighs together even before Derek bracketed Stiles’ legs with his own. He pushed back as far as he could on Derek’s thrusts, huffing out little sighs, squirming in Derek’s grip, and that alone was practically enough to get Derek off, was definitely enough to get Derek fucking in earnest, bottoming out against the soft back of Stiles’ balls, slicking everything from ass to balls in precome.

Stiles’ hands were fluttering from the wall to Derek’s arms and back, as if they didn’t know where to land. He probably didn’t even realize he was doing it, didn’t even hear the desperate gasps and whines coming out of his mouth, almost jumped when Derek leaned close and growled in his ear.

“Touch yourself. I want to hear you come.”

And Stiles did, stripping his dick with a grip that looked this side of painful, gasps growing into clenched-teeth cries. Derek pounded into the tight-clenched heat between Stiles’ legs, tightening his grip around Stiles’ throat when he could tell Stiles was about to come, so that Stiles came hard and thrashing, nearly convulsing, back arched and mouth open on a silenced scream, and that was more than enough to push Derek over the edge, getting a sympathetic shudder in response when he coated the inside of Stiles’ thighs and the back of his balls with pulse after pulse of hot, thick come.

Derek almost laughed when his head cleared enough to realize that they hadn’t made it more than two feet past the door. Although he was still biting down on the belt, Stiles had gone soft and pliant, barely even reacting when Derek tucked an arm behind his knees and lifted him, carrying him to the bed.

But he didn’t let go of the belt, not after Derek stripped him and flipped him over on to his belly, and not after Derek spread his legs wide and licked Stiles clean. He was making sounds that would have qualified for words, a long string of garbled cussing around the bit in his mouth, but he didn’t spit the belt out.

Derek licked hot stripes on Stiles’ tenderest skin, reddening Stiles’ inner thighs with the scrape of his beard, languidly working his way deeper and deeper until he was spreading Stiles open with his hands, licking at his ass until he loosened, unclenched and spread for Derek with the dirtiest gut-deep groan Derek had ever heard outside of porn.

Derek eased a finger in along with his tongue, rubbing relentlessly on Stiles’ prostate until he was a shuddering, sobbing mess, writhing under Derek’s hands. He gave Stiles play, let him loose a bit so that he could writhe into the mattress. It didn’t take much friction with the sheets before Stiles came, long rolling waves he couldn’t stop gasping and sobbing through.

Having finally dropped the belt, Stiles rolled into himself, aftershocks pulling him tight. Derek wrapped himself around Stiles, grounding him, centering him and keeping him safe. Stiles gripped him back, arms slipping around Derek, tightening hard. Derek didn’t let go until Stiles’ heartbeat had slowed and Stiles’ breathing matched his own, and even then, he loosened reluctantly.

He was feeling a lot, he knew he was, knew he wouldn’t be able to hide a bit of it. Wasn’t sure how he felt about that other than oddly shy. Vulnerable. Stiles wasn’t fairing any better, his eyes bloodshot and wide. He reached out and held Derek by the face again, a mirror of what he’d done when he’d walked in, only this time he just stared, eyes gone brass and inscrutable.

He couldn’t hide the tremble in his voice, though. Didn’t bother to hold back a sniff before he hissed out, “Not gonna let _anyone_ hurt you, Derek, do you hear me? _I will burn down the whole fucking universe to keep you safe_.”

It was eerie. Not overwrought, no false drama, his voice broken with sincerity.  Not a pop-psychology moment, either. This was not an attempt to bolster Derek’s sense of security or what-have-you. This was a proclamation that came deep from Stiles’ gut, and it was terrifying, knowing just what Stiles was capable of, and how much he meant what he just said.

It was almost as terrifying as knowing that he felt exactly the same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, this was definitely a chapter I didn't mind re-reading a couple (dozen) times for (ahem) editing purposes.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I thought I knew my son, thought I had a pretty good sense of him even after all the craziness that’s come our way. Turns out that I didn’t have a fucking clue."_

Derek held his breath as he walked into the bar but was still assaulted by the ubiquitous damp-hay smell of old beer and hints of poorly cleaned vomit. He hated bars. At least he didn’t have to deal with the reek of pheromones and desperation that came from a room full of people making poor choices, the midday crowd being relatively non-existent. It also made it easy to find the Sheriff holed up at a small table in a dark corner.

He looked to be nursing his drink, which was another small blessing. The man had worked through the night, so it wasn’t as though tying one on before lunch was a dereliction of duty, but Derek still felt he was entirely unprepared to deal with the father of the kid he was fucking while said father was shitfaced.

Hell, he wasn’t exactly certain he was capable of dealing with him in any condition, but he was there and the man had spotted him, nodding to the seat in front of him with a tight-lipped nod, so there was nothing for it but to sit and hope he wasn’t still armed.

“Kid send you?” He asked, lifting his drink to his mouth.

Derek nodded as he settled into his chair. “He was worried. Said you usually don’t do this unless it’s bad.”

The Sheriff huffed out a short laugh with a small shake of his head. “No, I usually don’t do this unless I want to do my drinking in peace.”

Derek could understand wanting to get away from the constant flail and cholesterol hypervigilance that was Stiles, but it also had to be noted that the man was running away from his own son. Given all the fresh hell Stiles had just gotten home from, he wasn’t of a mind to indulge the Sheriff. Stiles needed his dad, and the man needed to get over whatever was eating at him and step up for his son, because Derek wasn’t going to let the catastrophe that was his life wreck the most important relationship in these two men’s lives.

Arms crossed, he raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive. Is he right to be worried?”

The look the Sheriff speared him with was sharper than Derek had expected, and if he couldn’t smell the alcohol in the man’s bloodstream he would have wondered if the drink was nothing but a prop.

“I’d like to know when, in all of this, everyone seemed to lose track of the fact that, as his father, it should be _me_ worrying about _him_.”

And that was an emotional land mine Derek knew better than to step into. “I don’t doubt that you do worry, sir. Never have. What I don’t understand is why that would land you _here_ , instead of _with him_.”

Derek’s calm seemed to take the wind out of the Sheriff’s sails entirely. He slumped forward, resting his elbows on the table and wrapping both hands around his drink. Derek waited the man out. He’d been expecting some sort of outrage at the accusation of abandonment, not this near-confession in the Sheriff’s body language, and he had to clench his jaw against the urge to take it back. Derek waited him out, past a couple indrawn breaths and aborted sentences.

Finally the Sheriff leaned back with a distant look in his eyes. “This might not be a backwater, but it still counts as a small town. When I first started here I had no illusions about that, knew I’d be working mostly domestic disturbances and petty larceny. What happened to your family–”

His eyes cut over with a brief apology, like he hadn’t thought of the impact of his words before they came out, but Derek nodded him forward.

“What happened to your family, we were all convinced that was the worst thing we’d ever see around here, even when we’d been under the impression that it had been accidental. I’m not… It’s not like I’m some homicide detective in downtown Detroit, Derek. The amount of death and destruction we’ve had around here the past few years, it’s not anything I’d ever expected to deal with. It’s not anything I’m entirely sure I'm _capable_ of dealing with. And now? Now I’m looking at crime scene photos _I know_ the boy had a hand in and it’s…”

He drained his glass with a shake of his head and gestured for another before wiping his mouth and starting back up.

“There’s people mauled,” his eyes cut back to Derek for a second, “I’ve seen the sort before, I know what that’s about. But then there’s the others, bodies covered in stab wounds with a precise angle that radiates from one point, which is odd in and of itself, but here’s the clincher – the bodies show evidence of bleeding out instantly, as though the wounds all happened at once. The closest thing any of the techs have seen to this were industrial accidents, people falling into combines and such, and even then, it’s nothing so precise. Those bodies were basically _aerated_.”

He paused as the bartender brought him his drink, nodded in thanks before the man walked away, then leaned in and continued with a hushed tone that sounded more like a confession than a need for secrecy. “I know the _who_ , and I even get the _why_ of it. But now, every time I look at the kid, don’t see my son. I see the crime scene, I see the autopsy pictures, I see that _goddamned video_ , and I just can’t…”

The Sheriff puffed out another breath and dropped back into a slouch, deliberately looking everywhere but at Derek. Derek thought he knew the reason why, found it hard to hold back a wince and cringe, feeling his whole body trying to make itself as small as possible. He opened his mouth to try and stammer something out, but the Sheriff held his hand up to forestall him.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you for ‘defiling my innocent child.’ There wasn’t any sound, but it’s pretty damned obvious who was in control of the show, and it sure as hell wasn’t you. But see, that’s the thing.  I thought I knew my son, thought I had a pretty good sense of him even after all the craziness that’s come our way. Turns out that I didn’t have a fucking clue. And I wish to hell it could have been one of those heart-warming wake up calls, realizing my little boy is all grown up, but that’s not what I’m seeing. What I’m seeing is this kid whose tears I used to wipe become a highly competent murderer, and I can’t for the life of me figure out if he’s actually one of the good guys.”

The Sheriff raised his hand again. “Yeah, I get that he was acting in your defense. That doesn’t make him _good_ , that just means he’s on your side. I’m a _cop_ , Derek. I know better than most how quickly having the power to protect people can turn into having the power to eliminate a threat, how easily every unknown around you can turn into a perceived threat. And what Stiles has… what he can do? What the hell do you think is going to happen if he should get it in his head that the best course of action is to eliminate _potential_ threats? If he should decide to start killing anyone who looks at him funny, there isn’t a damn thing any of us can do to stop–”

“There is. I can stop him.”

This was not a conversation Derek had ever wanted to have with anyone, let alone Stiles’ father, but the man clearly needed to hear this, needed to know that he wasn’t the only one considering what kind of havoc an untethered Stiles could wreak. He hoped it might also give him a chance to derail the thought process that was driving a hard wedge between the two men.

“He answers to me. I can stop him with a single word. He’d gone to the fey out of the same fear that you have, and they wouldn’t let him leave unless someone had a rein on him. He’s been looking for ways to stop himself pretty much as soon as he knew what he was capable of, Sir, and I think that should give you a pretty clear sense about whether or not he’s actually a sociopath. Yes, he’s pragmatic, and yes, he can be ruthless, but he’s got a pretty clear sense of what’s right. You gave him that, and nothing in the world is going to make him forget it. And I would be there, even if he did lose sight of himself. He’ll listen to me, no matter what’s going on around him.”

“That doesn’t comfort me, Derek.”

The sentence was cold, laced with the kind of fear that had already sweated itself out, had moved from the adrenaline-laced ball-shrinking phase and had settled into something hard, sunk low in the gut and whispering over the shoulder. It picked the hairs up on the back of Derek's neck. He had to lick his teeth to keep his fangs back.

The Sheriff’s tone was too quiet for anyone else to hear, clipped like he was trying to distance himself from it all. “The Feds are coming for you, kid. They’ve seen the video. Never mind the distortions. They didn’t need to see your face. When we booked you, we took pictures of your tattoo, remember?”

Derek nodded when the Sheriff looked up and locked eyes with him. There was more concern in those eyes than Derek had expected to see. Echoes of the days after the fire, before he and Laura ran. Derek wore stillness like armor and tried like hell not to feel anything about what the man was saying. He felt like he was balanced on the edge of a precipice.

“In and of itself, that wouldn’t have been a problem. A tattoo like that is uncommon but not entirely unique. Not like, say, a set of fingerprints on some money and a broken lock left at the scene of a minor burglary at the only church within reasonable distance from the scene of a massacre might be. Because if you remember that we took a picture of your tattoo, I’m sure you remember we took your fingerprints as well. So, they’re coming for you, and they don’t have a single doubt you were there. But there’s a bright side to this. They’re not looking at you as a suspect. You need to hear that, Derek. _Not a suspect_. But definitely a material witness, based on how they interpret the video.”

The sheriff broke eye contact, looked down at his hands deliberately, and something in it made Derek’s stomach turn. The man’s voice stayed clinical.

“Those trappers _were_ on the radar as traffickers. It was mostly speculation without enough evidence, but the Feds weren’t entirely surprised by what they saw in that video. Or at least, what they thought they saw. You and the first suspect are tied in a truck. Second suspect comes in, drugs you and releases the first suspect. The first suspect assaults… The first suspect sexually assaults you. At some point you manage to break free, but you’re clearly intoxicated, and the first suspect continues to take advantage of you until you’re nearly unconscious. They think it was meant to be a snuff film. But then both of you disappear. From one second to the next, you are gone, the others come running in and running out, and then the rest proceeds off camera.

“Given that what they have is a snuff film without the snuff and a bunch of dead bodies surrounding the event in question, they figure someone must have stepped in, cut the feed and cut you loose. The group is evenly divided as to whether or not the man who raped you repeatedly helped you escape, but they’re certain that he didn’t die in that lot with everyone else. They’re hoping you can give up some clues as to that man’s identity. He is the only person seen in that film that has yet to be identified.”

“It wasn’t–”

“Derek, we are not going to have that conversation today. You two did what you had to do, and you made it out alive. Right now what you need to focus on is what you’re going to tell the Feds when they catch up with you and what the hell you’re going to do if they decide you need to be in protective custody, which they very well might.”

Derek was about to be surrounded by Feds who might be able to recognize Stiles from the video. There was no way in hell they could be seen associating. Which would leave Stiles out in the cold. Derek was startled by his own partial shift. Even if it only lasted seconds, it had been a very long time since he’d felt something so strongly that it pulled out the fang unbidden. His whole body was tensed forward as if he was about to bolt.

He wanted to run. And he could. He could take Stiles with him and they could both run. But that was no kind of life for a teenager, as Derek could attest. And Stiles had ties he shouldn’t have to break, unlike Derek at his age. He didn’t even contemplate leaving without Stiles. As his fangs already attested, that wasn’t an option.

The Sheriff tilted his head in Derek’s direction. “It’s your call, how this goes. Just let me know what you decide.”

As if anything that Stiles was involved in was ever Derek’s call. Which put their current setting in an entirely different light.

“You haven’t told Stiles yet, have you?”

The Sheriff finally uncurled himself, leaning back with an expansive shrug that echoed his own son’s. “When I said it was your call, I meant it. I can understand and appreciate it if you would rather leave than face another round with the law. I’d prefer otherwise, but in the end, the choice is yours to make.”

Which was why the Sheriff was holed up in a bar at eleven o’clock in the morning. Outside of Melissa, Derek was the only one of Stiles' acquaintances old enough to walk into a bar. No doubt, the Sheriff had known that what he did would rattle Stiles and that Stiles would send Derek. To have a conversation Stiles could be none the wiser about, should Derek decide to cut and run.

It was pretty clear that Stiles inherited his ability to scheme from more than just the fey part of his lineage.

“And if I decide to stick around and answer their questions?”

The man had a good poker face, Derek could grant him that, but there was no way to hide the way his body loosened while at the same time his heart rate kicked up – hope, that was. Pure and simple. It was even in the corners of his words, stuttering out on a half breath.

“If you stay, I’ll be looking out for you, every step of the way. You won’t be alone in this, Derek.  I can’t promise any outcome, here, but I can promise you that much.”

Funny, he used to take great pride in the fact that he didn’t need anybody. Now, he thought maybe he liked the warmth of an ally at your back much more than any amount of pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo much thank you for all your patience with the sporadic posting. I'm trying, I swear I am, and I have no intention of leaving this unfinished. It just might take me a while.  
> : )


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was going to remember this. When this was all over and they were sitting somewhere with the sun on their faces, he was going to remember this, and he was going to ask Stiles how well all those strategies of his worked._

“You want the Sheriff here? Even after he arrested you?” The raised eyebrow said it all.

Agent Gallagher struck Derek as a friendly man, for all that he was a massive pink mountain of a man. He had a glint in his eye, a natural curiosity about him that made him seem friendly. Derek guessed that was probably a damned useful trait in a special agent. Also not someone he could pull one over on easily. But then again, he’d never figured that lying to law enforcement officers would ever be an easy thing.

Derek pulled a half-shrug and kept his eyes low. “I get why that happened. I should have told them I’d found my sister’s body, but I just wanted her to be at rest. I get why he did that.” Derek let his voice drop lower, “He was there for us before… After the fire. He looked out for us. I’d like him to be here.”

All true. And yet all so very far from the truth. But believable enough that the agent nodded for a moment and gave a small shrug. “Yeah, sure. I don’t see why not.”

Stiles wasn’t scared. Somehow, it helped to know that. He hadn’t freaked out when Derek told him about the Feds coming. He’d nodded with half a smile, sucking his lips in for a second, clapping and breathing out, “Okay, here’s an idea…”

And as for the rest, as for being recognized or spotted with Derek? Stiles hadn’t been worried in the slightest. Told him not to worry, that he was actually pretty good at not being noticed. And oddly, Stiles had been right.

He had been there, in the background from time to time, the awkward gangly loudmouthed teenaged son of the sheriff, and as such, none of the agents gave him a second glance. It was ballsy and terrifying to watch. Derek could tell that it infuriated the Sheriff as well, but getting angry would call much more attention on them than playing it off would, and Stiles knew that, if his flushed cheeks and shit-eating grin were anything to go by.

Once the Sheriff had been called in and situated, Derek took a deep breath and prepared himself. He was going to have to lie point blank to a human version of a lie-detector. He’d spent his whole life lying to humans, pretending to be something he wasn’t, passing, fitting in. But he'd also spent as long surrounded by people who could practically _smell_ a lie. He didn’t doubt his capacity for deception, but he’d be a fool to doubt the agent’s capacity for perception.

It helped that it was a simple story. Derek fixed the image of the man who’d gotten the speeding ticket in Beacon Hills at the forefront of his mind and dove in. He told them that he’d gone to the Jungle where man in question had bought him a drink. Derek had no qualms about accepting the drink but was ambivalent about letting it go any further than that. Things got fuzzy not long after, and the next thing he remembered was crawling out of a ditch near a church. All of it was completely believable.

_“Trust me, Derek,” Stiles had said, “they’ll take one look at you and not question it for a second.” And Derek had wanted to ask what the hell that meant, whether it meant he looked like a gigolo or like a guy who trolled for free drinks in a gay club, but there were bigger fish to fry. It still rankled, though, just a little._

The agent dug and prodded, pulled out a detail here or there. The smell of hay and he wasn’t sure why, but he remembered things feeling hard and cold, like the ground was made out of metal. He’d known he’d had sex when he’d woken up naked in the ditch, couldn’t be sure if he actually _remembered_ having sex or his mind was filling in the blanks for him. He remembered feeling nauseous. He remembered aching and let his voice crack dry a bit at that, running the inquest into the ground.

It was all cloudy and unclear in a way that was completely believable, and Derek got a small measure of amusement that his broad experience with being poisoned, delirious or near-death on repeated occasions could prove useful.

Derek was giving the agent exactly what the man expected to hear. But even if he lacked the fervor that came of thinking there was something worth digging for, this was a meaty case spanning multiple states and under intense media scrutiny. It made perfect sense that the Feds would gnaw on it for all it was worth.

They wanted to take Derek to the crime scene. The Sheriff stiffened at the request, but Derek shook his head, waving him down. It was the sort of behavior that incited sympathy and gratitude in the agents, just like Stiles had said it would. Still, it didn’t get him out of having to go back to the literal scene of the crime. He just hoped the smell of charred flesh had washed out of the place.

Derek would have to travel in a separate car with the agents, but the Sheriff was invited to drive escort in his cruiser, and Derek didn’t doubt for a second that Stiles would somehow insinuate himself into a ride-along, and that nobody would fucking notice other than the Sheriff, who would be apoplectic and resigned to it in equal measure.

The ride there was shorter than he remembered it, Derek’s heart skipping a beat when the exit took him by surprise. Even though it was broad daylight, the lot and the tree-line were pervasively recognizable. Derek’s chest was a tight knot before he even stepped out of the car. He didn’t look for Stiles, didn’t even look in the Sheriff’s general direction. Couldn’t. The best he could do was follow along silently as Agent Gallagher painstakingly led him from spot to spot.

What little more Derek managed to contribute through a throat gone painfully tight was relatively useless to the investigation but seemed to bolster Derek’s credibility. If the furtive apologetic side-glances he’d caught from Agent Gallagher a couple times were anything to go by, they weren’t going to be pushing Derek any further.

They’d gotten what they could, if not what they needed. It was enough to bolster some of their assumptions, and absolutely useless with regard to the unnamed suspect. As he ducked back into the back seat of the Fed’s Crown Vic, Derek tasted bile in the back of his throat but could hear Stiles’ voice echoing in his head, hot, sharp, and bright.

_“Making a plan, Derek. Do you have any idea how nice it is to at least be able to use some goddamned strategy for a fucking change?”_

Once they were on the highway, Derek let his mind wander, softening and calming in the glide of smooth driving, nothing to do but be a passenger. Until suddenly, and for no good reason, Derek wasn’t gliding. He felt like he’d been plunged in a bath of ice water, dread prickling down his spine, and then for a few long, long seconds, everything was white and bursting, the world cracked open but so very very silent, like something big was holding its breath before exhaling on a _boom_ that ripped things apart with finality.

He survived.

Luck of being in the back seat, luck that the person on the trigger of the IED was a touch too eager, blowing up the engine instead of the cab, luck that he was thrown when the car was ripped apart, luck that he was a werewolf.

Or maybe it wasn’t luck at all.

Derek could smell it, could smell _him_ , crisp like bitter ash, Derek’s enhanced Alpha senses tracking the scent like technicolor, on overdrive as his mangled body fought to heal itself in the ravine he’d rolled down. Fuck.

And it all comes full circle, doesn’t it? It made a sick kind of sense that Stiles should come running from the opposite direction. He could hear the Sheriff a ways off, back with the cars, securing the scene and calling in help. By the sound of it, the car Derek had been in wasn’t the only one wrecked.

He was going to remember this. When this was all over and they were sitting somewhere with the sun on their faces, he was going to remember this, and he was going to ask Stiles how well all those _strategies_ of his worked. Because he was pretty damned sure that Peter standing at the bottom of a ravine with a gun pointed at Derek’s head was never a part of any plan.

Then again, Peter always had a way of tossing a wrench into the mix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not sorry!!!  
> *runs cackling into the sunset*
> 
> but things are picking up- I promise I won't leave you hanging for too long!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the sudden stillness, Stiles blew hard out of his nose like a bull and then hissed at Derek through clenched teeth. “Did I not tell you the man needed killing? Did I not tell you that?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for blood, death and other gruesome things

In the sudden stillness, Stiles blew hard out of his nose like a bull and then hissed at Derek through clenched teeth. _“Did I not tell you the man needed killing? Did I not tell you that?”_

Peter wasn’t amused. Peter didn’t much care. Peter just grabbed Derek by a broken arm and started dragging him into the brush, gun now trained on Stiles, making him move in front of them.

It was a wonder Derek managed not to scream as he bounced along a rough trail through overgrown manzanita, but the last thing he needed was anyone else rushing into Peter’s line of fire. The Sheriff in particular.

Peter had reasons, whatever the fuck they may be, to keep he and Stiles alive. If he didn’t, they would have already been dead. It was impossible to know if he felt that way about anyone else. So he let Peter drag him like dead weight over the ground as his broken femur and shattered ankles set themselves with grinding precision. And he kept his fucking mouth shut.

By the time they reached what must have been a suitable distance, Derek had almost managed to get his feet under him. Peter distanced himself enough to be out of reach, switching targets, training his gun on Derek once again, only this time holding the gun low, toward’s Derek’s nearly healed legs.

He tossed something at Stiles’ feet. “Put this on.”

Stiles picked up an iron band of some sort, holding it gingerly between two fingers. “A collar, Peter? You couldn’t have gotten something lined? Or at least something that didn’t look like you stole it out of a museum?”

Peter rolled his eyes and re-trained his gun as he spoke, his voice eerily calm for all the chaos he’d been unleashing. “You have no idea how hard it is to find metal with the right iron content in it these days, Stiles. Now put it on or I’ll shoot his knee out. I don’t particularly need him walking.”

Stiles’ voice shook a little as he pulled the thing shut around his throat. “So, what exactly is it you need him _for_ , then? Or me, for that matter?”

Peter didn’t answer, just tossed Stiles a padlock and raised his eyebrows. The padlock wasn’t old. It looked new, substantial and brass, the kind of thing that would have _heavy duty_ written somewhere on the packaging. Peter gave Stiles an indulgent smile when he’d managed to latch it on. Stiles’ hands had started shaking and he was going pale, had to catch himself against a tree, head dropped like he was drunk or dizzy.

Iron. So many stories talked about iron and the effect it had on the fey. Suppressing, trapping, killing. If the stories were true, it didn’t take a genius to figure out how effectively something like an iron collar might hobble Stiles. Peter gave a tight nod when Stiles slid down to his knees with a _holy fuck_ and sat on the ground panting, his hands buried in the dirt, top of his head pressed up against the trunk of the tree. He looked like he was desperately trying to keep himself from flying to pieces. Peter seemed completely unconcerned.

“He really has no clue how _useful_ he could be, how powerful he is, does he? You’ve been squandering his skills, Nephew.”

“Get to the fucking point, _Uncle_.” Derek wasn’t of a mind to put up with the goddamned rambling, not while he had to watch Stiles on his knees, folding in on himself with a fevered shudder.

“ _My point is_ that you are going to hand him over to me, where, believe me, I _am_ going to make ample use of him.”

Derek’s eyes snapped to his uncle’s to find them cold and determined, his hunger for some imagined power completely overshadowing any hidden meanings in that sentence. Not that Peter wouldn’t get to those _uses_ eventually. Derek didn’t doubt he’d take every advantage of Stiles that he could, given enough time. He had to catch his breath for a second before he could muster an answer.

“It doesn’t work that way. You can’t just say you’ve claimed him and kick your heels together to make it so–”

“No, but _you_ can compel him, which means you can order him to do as I bid.”

And he could. Derek could see that clearly. He could lay down the order and Stiles would have no choice but to puppet for Peter in whatever way he wanted. Of course, Peter would have to sleep with one eye open and maybe wear body armor, but that level of paranoia wasn’t exactly new to Peter. He probably already had that figured out. Derek wouldn’t be surprised if the bastard had a cage to match Stiles’ collar.

There was no way in hell he was going to let that happen.

Peter smirked, reading Derek’s thoughts by the look on his face. “The alternative is I kill you and he wears that thing around his neck for the rest of his life. Either way, I get him. One just works out better for you.”

Stiles snorted and eased his head back, talking up into the canopy. “Yeah, but what if I _like_ wearing collars? Did you ever think of that?”

Peter straightened, backing up a bit, uneasy and Derek knew why. There was a certain lilt to Stiles’ voice that was raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

But Peter’s voice stayed steady on the reply. “It doesn’t matter _how_ you feel about it, only what it does to you.”

“And that’s… What? Keep me human? You figure that would keep you safe? Keep me from killing you? But more importantly… _Are you sure the collar works?_ ”

Peter shuffled back but then stopped dead in his tracks with a grunt, gun falling out of limp fingers as Stiles rose and turned to face them. It felt to Derek as though the blood had been stilled in his veins. Stiles' eyes were no longer whites and irises, just pools of whorling metals, a quicksilver mix of every tone swirling in mesmerizing patterns.

What had seemed like pallor, like the blood draining from his face when he put the collar on, now looked like a sheen. His skin looked coated in something vaguely pearlescent. When he smiled his teeth were starkly white, and it might have been a trick of Derek’s mind, but they seemed sharper. Capable of rending.

There was nothing vaguely human about him. Even his movements, his very breathing had become something sinuous and otherworldly. His voice slid sharp down Derek’s spine. If he doubted the bond they had even a little, he’d probably be scared shitless, but he _knew_ that voice and it gripped him by the balls in unspeakable ways. Even if it was, in every way, not the time and place for it.

Stiles flashed Derek a meat-eating grin, but locked his trajectory on Peter. “ _Elementals_. Maybe that includes _all_ the elements. Maybe some of us _like_ those baser ones. I mean, for fuck’s sake – _there’s iron in my blood_ , Peter. How could I still be alive if I was allergic to my own blood? It’s always the high school science that trips you up, isn’t it?  Not that you were completely wrong. I mean, this thing–” He shuddered again as he ran a finger over the collar, “This thing is definitely suppressing things. Just not the things you’d expected.”

Stiles had reached Peter, close enough that Peter could likely feel his breath, feel the way Stiles’ gaze roamed on his face, but Peter didn’t move, just stood staring wide-eyed at Stiles’ face, making a strange clicking sound in the back of his throat. Stiles looked at him like he was a specimen, kept murmuring, soft and sibilant.

“ _Science_ , Peter. Trial and error. Why it helps to run a little R and D. Ask questions. Like, for instance, if a werewolf were paralyzed, completely paralyzed, so that he couldn’t even make his lungs work– would he die? Or would he just hang there, waiting for the next breath, on the edge of dying? Does that lack of oxygen kill your brain cells slowly enough that you can keep making more, or are you running the risk of coming back a vegetable? Already, you’d be dead, if you were a person–”

_“Stiles. Stop.”_

Derek put every ounce of will and force he could muster into those words. He couldn’t even look at Peter, turning strange colors and twitching slightly like he was being electrocuted, but still standing exactly where he had been, his pose almost casual if it wasn't for the jerking. Stiles paused and looked over at Derek with a puzzled grin, stepping away from Peter and shaking his head.

“Yeah, that doesn’t work either, _Alpha_. But you’re right. I’m wasting time.”

Peter dropped like his strings were cut, but froze again before he could draw a whole breath, trembling for a second before he exploded.

Exploded. Like he’d been filled with C4, with a spray of blood and bits of bone and meat flying like shrapnel, the smell of offal sharp and fresh in the air.

Derek sat stunned, could only watch as Stiles crouched next to him, his mind in a white-out while he tried to process, tried to reconcile the red spatter and drip into a dead uncle, tried to get his brain to stop sputtering _what the fuck just happened?_ Stiles slid a hand over the back of Derek’s neck and Derek felt the warm tingle of energy, this time pouring into him instead of getting pulled out, drawing out any vestiges of pain and injury, setting him to better rights than he’d been in years.

It took seconds. He didn’t register what Stiles had said until he was already up, already fading insubstantially into the brush.

“He killed those agents, Derek. I _liked_ those guys. Think Peter was working alone? ‘Cause I doubt he was. This time, _don’t_ come after me.”

And Derek couldn’t be sure because he wasn’t going to test it, but it almost felt like there was an added push to those words that settled into his very bones.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You were right.” It seemed only fair that Derek should have to admit it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A NEW CHAPTER??!!!?!!!!  
> well... a year and a half and I'm back? Not exactly a triumphant return, but I persevere.  
> I wouldn't blame you if you were skeptical about ever seeing this story completed, and I'm not going to make any promises, but I will say that I'm going to try the best I can to see this story through.

    He was wearing bits of his uncle.  Well aware that it did him no good whatsoever to dwell on that in the present moment, but still.  It bore noting.  
  
    The walk back to the road was a far cry easier than the drag away had been, with the smell of wreckage and sounds of distress pointing the way back like a spotlight.  He emerged out of the tree line into a catastrophe, for once an event of entirely human proportions, and one in which he might be capable of doing some measure of good.  
  
    The Sheriff gave him little more than a cursory nod, and Derek joined in with the able-bodied in getting the injured to safety, doing what they could to quell the chaos until emergency crews arrived. By the time the ambulances were pulling away, no one even thought twice about the blood Derek was wearing.  
  
    There were no questions about how Derek had survived the bombing.  According to the Sheriff, Derek had been riding in the car with him.  The Sheriff made no mention of his son, and by the time they left, any memory anyone had of Stiles getting out of the cruiser had been neatly supplanted by Derek’s presence.  
  
    Derek had a brief moment of sheer panic as they drove away, wondering if somehow Stiles had managed to wipe out even the Sheriff’s memory of his own son.  Thankfully, he only had to endure a few minutes of wondering how the hell to broach the topic before the Sheriff cleared his throat.  
  
    “You wouldn’t happen to know just where my son went, would you?”  
  
    Derek shook his head.  It was a hard thing to admit, even to himself, but in point of fact he couldn’t even say what direction Stiles had taken when he left.  
  
    “He walked off.  Told me not to follow him.”  
  
    The Sheriff nodded hard.  “He said about the same to me.  Mentioned Peter, too.  Said the man had given him a gift and would no longer be a problem.  Then he just took off.”  
  
    There was some sort of bitterness in those words, a vague scent of bile in the way the Sheriff continued, voice quiet like it hurt to say.  “Came out of the trees to talk and looked right through the carnage like it wasn’t even there.  Like he didn’t give a single damn about the screaming and the bodies.  I asked him to help.  He said he had better things to do.”  
  
    The phrase _That’s not my son_ hung unspoken between them, and there was no way Derek could argue that point.  Even if what he was now had always been a part of Stiles, something essential and human was gone, _suppressed_ , like he’d said himself.  The thing that was most frightening was how perfectly okay with that he’d seemed.  
  
    “You were right.”  It seemed only fair that Derek should have to admit it.  “I can’t call him back.  The bond isn’t working right.”  
  
    Not that it wasn’t working at all, he could feel their connection, still there, thrumming in his heart.  But.  It had changed.  And he had no idea what to make of it.  
  
    The Sheriff shook his head lightly.  “An unfortunate side effect of my job is that you don’t really feel so great when people tell you your hunches were right.”  
  
    After a minute or two he shook his head again, this time with more certainty.  “He’s not coming back until he’s damn good and ready this time.  And the bitch of it is we have no idea exactly _what_ he’ll be when he does come back.”  
  
    Which was pretty much what Derek had been thinking.  The rest of the drive was a heavy quiet, and Derek’s mind kept flitting back to brass eyes shining, kept hearing whispered words.  
  
     _“I will burn down the whole fucking universe to keep you safe.”_  
      
~~~  
  
    It was a dream.  He was running, four-footed, sharp-fanged, chasing down the scent of _wrong_ and _enemy_.  He was running and far too clever for their traps and pitfalls, closing in fast on the rhythm of panicked heartbeats, dodging wild shots.  He was hunting, and he wasn’t doing it alone, his partner just as fast and wicked as he was.  
  
    Their prey didn’t stand a chance, and it was a revelry in blood, a hallelujah of screaming, dying men.  The beat, though, the beat continued, even after they had tasted their enemy’s blood.  It was a dream and they ran, thunder and fear in the dark, sharp-clawed death chasing down the ones who thought they’d holed up in safety. Fire burned them out and he took them down as they fled.  They pled for mercy.  He had no use for such things.  
  
    It was a dream until it wasn’t.  It was a dream until the drum beat stopped.  Until he felt cool hands on his human face, until he shuddered from the shock of a rapid and unbidden shift.  It wasn’t a dream, but he still had a mouth full of death, those deft fingers running through the blood on his face, feeding it to him as though it wasn’t blood at all.  
  
    It wasn’t a dream and he was crouched naked in the middle of some godforsaken woods, no clue where he was but a relatively clear idea of how he got there.  After all, he knew those fingers far too well.  
  
     _“Jesus fuck_ , Stiles, _what the hell?"_  
  
    Stiles’ smile practically glowed in the pitch-black of the night-time woods, sharp and altogether wicked.  “Hello, lover.”  
  
    There was no magic or compulsion in it, but it grabbed him by the balls nonetheless, without any regard for how fucked up the current scenario was.  It brought his hackles up, and he found himself hissing through fangs.  
  
    “You _forced_ me here, like this?”  
  
    Stiles leaned in, well inside Derek’s clawed reach as though he were harmless.  And hell, maybe Derek was.  Maybe he had no defenses against Stiles.  The casual way Stiles was able to lay his arms over Derek’s shoulders and slide in close would be a good indication of it.  The way Stiles’ almost-whisper and sickle grin sent shivers down Derek’s spine was also a pretty clear sign of how fucked he was.  
  
    “I called and you came.  That’s how this works between us.”  
  
    Derek would have pulled Stiles in if he hadn’t been distracted by his throat and the way the skin around the iron collar was a blue-black stain.  He reached to touch that instead, and Stiles danced well out of his reach.  It helped Derek clear his mind.  
  
    He shook his head weakly.  “Stiles, you can’t just—”  
  
    “Obviously I _can_ , because _I did_.”  Stile’s mood had flipped on a dime, he was all hisses and clipped consonants, almost spitting his response.  “What we’ve done here is for the good.  For _our_ good. Don’t worry, you’ll get it eventually.”  
  
    “No Stiles, I don’t think…”  But he was talking to shadows, to mud and corpses, to a slip of a spirit gliding off into the dark.  
  
     _“Go home, Derek.”_ It was a quiet whisper he heard mostly in his own mind.  
  
    He didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until he opened them.  The first thing he noticed was the way the blood of too many kills was dripping from his hands on to his living room floor.  
  
    The second was how hungry he was, how he practically wanted to _beg_ to be back in the shine of those metal eyes.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It made his hands shake and he hated himself for it, hated himself for wanting more, hated himself for ever having given a single fuck about Stiles fucking Stilinski_

    It was kind of sad, how good they’d all gotten at hiding trace evidence.  By the time Derek was done, the fresh blood on the floor was nothing but a bleach stain.  One among many.  For the thousandth time, Derek thought maybe he should move, and for the thousandth time he discarded the thought, knowing that there’d be bleach stains and ghosts haunting his home no matter where he lived.  
  
    He’d turned a news channel on for white noise as he cleaned, was not at all surprised with one of the stories on heavy rotation.  An unexpected flash flood had taken out an entire camp of survivalists, and he supposed that was a neat enough way to disguise the lacerations and broken bones.  He recognized the terrain, though, in bits and pieces like a fever dream, and knew beyond a doubt that none of those men died in anything that could be called an Act of God.    
  
    He still had the taste of it in his mouth.  
  
    It made his hands shake and he hated himself for it, hated himself for wanting more, hated himself for ever having given a single fuck about Stiles fucking Stilinski.  Hated himself for knowing he was never going to shake that bone-deep need he was feeling.  And he wasn’t a fool enough to be able to blame it on the bond, not entirely.  
  
    Stiles was calling out that bloodthirsty beast that still raged inside of him.  Stiles was _seducing_ that part of Derek that craved to feel its darkest power, that wanted nothing more than to make the world _bleed_ for all the blood he’d already lost.  He was fucked.  Fucked because Stiles had him, hook line and sinker, not just promising, but giving him exactly what the weakest parts of him wished for every damned day.  
  
    And while he tried his best on any given day to live by some sort of moral code, (if for nothing else, than because it helped keep him both alive and not incarcerated) he was not a man made of stern enough stuff to resist losing himself in Stiles.  Not when _this_ was what had lain hidden in the boy.  If he was going to be honest with himself, and he supposed it was about damned time he was, he wanted _everything_ Stiles had to offer.  In the absolute _worst_ kind of way.  
  
    Derek honestly had no idea if those dead men even had anything to do with him.  He’d like to believe that Stiles still maintained some level of discernment, but that _‘what we’ve done here is for the good’_ was in no way comforting.  It was straight-up supervillain talk, the sort of statement Stiles would have snorted at and ripped apart not very long ago.    
  
    It was also just a little bit sickening how badly he wanted to let go and trust that Stiles did have a plan, and that Derek was actually being given an opportunity to exact revenge, if not on the people who had harmed him directly, then at least on people who meant him harm.  
  
    He had no idea what to do with any of it.  It wasn’t like he could talk to anyone.  If the drama of Stiles’ first disappearance had been overwrought with concern, this latest run had just about everybody pissed.  Scott was convinced he’d gone darkside for good.  The Sheriff didn’t want to talk about it, but his mood darkened every time another accident or natural disaster took out another armed militia member.  
  
    Because there had been other strangely convenient accidental deaths, by the ones or twos, of people that might have been of interest.  And now this, yet another armload of dead affiliated militia-men.  Derek was dreading and fully expecting a call to come when the autopsy reports filed in.  Because as clean as the flash flood might have swept things, he knew the shit was going to hit the fan when it was found that none of those dead bodies had water in their lungs.  
  
    He had no idea what he was going to tell the man.  He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to look him in the eye ever again, what with his being utterly infatuated with the absolute worst version of Stiles that Stiles could ever be.  
  
    As for Scott… Well maybe Scott was right, but even as things stood, Stiles was on their side.  And Scott may like to act as if he’d never benefitted from the help of the morally bankrupt, but they all knew better.  Scott himself should know better, and it raised Derek’s hackles to think that he could so easily write Stiles off.  And although Derek might not know the details, he had a very clear impression that this was not the first time Scott had written Stiles off in order to better bask in the glow of some shiny new sycophant.  
  
    And it was odd, to think these things about the man who had just recently been your Alpha.    
  
    Odd, but honestly, it felt good as well.  
  
    Maybe it was all bullshit.  Maybe what made a True Alpha had nothing to do with their _actual_ virtue, and everything to do with how hard the Alpha believed in himself as worthy.  In some ways, it made more sense to their kind if that state was something you had to hold on to with teeth bared.  And if that was the case, that was not a beauty pageant Derek had any interest in being a part of.  
  
    So he laid low and made himself scarce.  Not, it should be noted, in some cave, eating bunnies.  He had a home.  It had a door and a lock.  He stayed behind it and the world was kind enough to leave him the fuck alone.  He avoided most phone calls, hunkered down and waited for the shit to hit the fan.  
  
     But there never was a high alert.  Nothing unusual was found in the tragedy, the men were laid to rest and life went on as if Derek had never eviscerated a bunch of crazy-ass greedy fucking rednecks.  As much as he knew he should have been grateful, it mostly just fucked with his mind.  Because he _knew_ it had happened.  He _knew_ it was real.  But nothing happened.  
  
    And those strange suspicious deaths stopped happening as well.  Stiles fell off the radar entirely, but that did not comfort Derek.  It didn’t necessarily mean Stiles had stopped killing, it simply meant that Stiles was honing his skills and using them in crafty, scheming ways, and not just acting purely on instinct.    
  
    Regardless, he knew he’d be seeing Stiles soon.  Derek could feel him, like an electric buzz right under his skin.  It was just a matter of waiting.  
  
    He was fully expecting it, but Stiles’ arrival still took him by surprise.    
  
    It was a full moon and he was sitting on the floor in the darkest corner of his loft wishing for the night to just _end_ and all those ghosts of memories to leave him be.    
  
    Nights like those, he missed Erica most of all.  
  
    The night wasn’t even halfway done and he knew he still had hours to endure, so nothing made sense when the weight in his mind lifted, the itch behind his fangs died down and the night started to feel as slick as glass.  At least, nothing made sense until Stiles appeared, fading into focus as if he was made of moonlight and shadows himself.    
  
    Derek was already blown as wide open as the moon, so there was no way he could hide the thrill he felt at the sight, Stiles gone sleek and feline, sauntering like a rockstar.  His pants were frayed, hanging loose at the hips.  His shirt was torn to something close to nonexistent.  His skin glowed, stripped of color, alabaster in the moonlight, gunmetal shadow on his throat lining the heavy metal collar.  
  
    He grinned like he knew exactly what kind of a figure he cut and drawled out _“Hello Lover”_ once again.  
  
    This time Derek didn’t hesitate, didn’t hold himself back as he rose to meet Stiles, to claim that grin and _taste_ it, wrapping a hand around the back of Stiles’ head, pulling him in and holding him there.  Stiles melted into Derek’s grip, flowed sinuously against his whole body, let himself be _taken_ , and it was exactly what Derek needed, exactly what he’d never thought he would ever have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing is haaaarrrrddddddd!!!! *stomps feet and whines off into the sunset*


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I came here for this. I came here_ for you _, and if you don’t think I mean_ all of you _, then you haven’t been paying attention._

    Derek broke the kiss and pulled his head back a little, keeping Stiles trapped, his cool body pressed up against Derek’s so tightly it strained their breathing.  He held Stiles still and just _looked_.  Looked into those swirling metal eyes, let his gaze roam over every inch of Stiles’ face.  There was no desperation or necessity spurring them on, just heat and lust and the moon.    
  
    Derek wasn’t going to run from this anymore.    
  
    It wasn’t as though treading water on the side of what was right had ever gotten him much other than shot at and strung up, anyway.  And feeling that lithe body in his arms nearly sparking with fire and life, knowing down to his bones that this creature was every inch as much of a monster as Derek had ever been, it made him want to give up completely on any farce of morality he’d been trying to cling to.  
  
    The only thing stopping him now was the thought that something other than Stiles might be driving him into Derek’s arms.  Because Derek knew what it was to house more than one being in his soul, and knew himself as both of them.  But he also knew what it was to be driven beyond thought or reason, to become nothing but a victim to a compulsion he did not control.  Those were two very separate things, and he refused to end up as the reminder of someone else’s powerlessness over themselves.  So he held back and looked a little bit more.  
  
    Those strange eyes might have been hard to read, but he could see challenge spark in them.  “You looking for something?”  
  
    And there was the Stiles he knew so well, writ large in the flash of exasperation and impatience he used to cover his fear of being seen too clearly.  
  
    Derek arched a single eyebrow, half-smiled with a hint of fang.  “No. Just liking what I see.”  
  
    Stiles rolled his eyes with a grin and pulled Derek back in, kissing him hard and thorough before Derek broke away again, sliding his lips down to nestle and nip below Stiles’ ear, skipping past the collar and biting down on his shoulder almost hard enough to break the skin.  Stiles breathed a small startled sigh as his knees buckled under him and he had to let Derek take their weight, his fingers digging into Derek’s back like bites of their own, scratching hot welts into his skin.  
  
    It dragged something between a groan and a growl out of Derek, and he led Stiles down until he was on his knees.  Stiles grinned up at him, practically rubbing his cheek along Derek’s hardening cock, mouth half open and wolfish.  
  
    “You really like me down here, don’t you?”  
  
    Derek grinned back with a cheeky nod, “Probably almost as much as you do.”  
  
    Stiles gave a half nod, unfastening Derek’s pants, “You’re probably right about that.”  He made a halfhearted attempt at pulling down Derek’s shorts, at least until he could free Derek’s dick and pull it out, stroking it with both hands and licking his lips with something close to reverence.  
  
    And _christ_ , it felt like a benediction when Stiles dipped his head and kissed the crown before sliding Derek’s dick into his mouth.  The slick slide and heat of lips, tongue and spit were coupled with a sparkling feather-touch of magic.  It had Derek groaning cussed prayers out loud without a single ounce of shame, hands fisted at his sides, hiding claws he could do nothing to stop from growing.  
  
    He wanted to throw the kid down and _ravage_ him.  His blood and the moon were singing with it so loudly that he had to pull Stiles off, pull him up and hold him there, foreheads pressed together as he fought to catch his breath.  Stiles stilled, waiting with patient hands on Derek’s hips, but Derek could feel his gaze, urgent and intent for all that the closeness made it hard to see.  
  
    Derek fought hard for words.  “This… how far?  How much…?  Because the moon, it’s pushing and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to hold back, I’m not sure what I might…”    
  
    It was a broken whisper, gravel rough and fang-lisped and Stiles shushed him, stilled him with hands against his face, whispering just as quietly into the space between them.  
  
    “Hey, hey, it’s okay.  I can take it.  Whatever you need, you know I can take it.  It’s why I’m here.  _You called and I came.  That’s how it works between us._   I came here for this.  I came here _for you_ , and if you don’t think I mean _all of you_ , then you haven’t been paying attention.  Just let go, Derek.  I’m ready for you.”  
  
    Nothing Derek could do, then, but let go and trust that Stiles knew what was going on.  Because this wasn’t anything like what went down in the horse trailer, this wasn’t some strange drug coursing through his system causing an unnatural reaction Derek had no control over.  This was just the moon running through his veins, reminding him what it was to be a beast, goading him into unleashing all of his strength and power.  Stiles would not be working any spells this night.  If Derek had anything to say about it, he would be doing little more than begging.  
  
    He took Stiles by the back of the neck and tossed him in the general direction of the bed, just to make himself abundantly clear.  Stiles landed like a cat, lean and limber, smiling wide with a manic edge as he worked his pants off , eyes trained on him as Derek stalked forward, body surging up to meet him as soon as Derek reached the bed.  Derek took care of the shirt for him.  It was little more than tissue, anyway.  
  
    And there was Stiles in all his glory.  _This_ Stiles, the one he’d dreamed about so many times, swaying lightly on his knees in a pose somewhere between alluring and ready for a fight, gleaming in the moonlight like some supernatural creature, fevered shine in his eyes, licking hungry lips.  _His_ Stiles.    
  
    Derek surged forward, fanged and clawed and beyond care or conscience, shoving Stiles down on the bed as he dropped himself on all fours over him, half-wolfed hands pinning Stiles’ arms to the bed, tongue laving whatever skin he could reach, fangs leaving welts as they scraped and Stiles just took it, writhed and _took it_ , lifting his hips up to rub against Derek, already dripping slick, moaning high and tight when Derek bit down harder still and shuddered at the bloom of blood that trickled on his tongue.  
  
    Stiles used his feet and whatever clarity of mind he could muster to shove Derek’s pants down and off, freeing Derek up and spreading his legs wide so that Derek could rut with grunting abandon, dicks gliding hot and slick against each other, trapped hard and desperate between their sweat-slicked bodies.  Derek couldn’t stop holding Stiles in a bruising grip, couldn’t stop biting marks into that pale skin and Stiles just threw his head back and laughed, wild and free and panting, breathing only _yes_ and _more_.  
  
    Derek rode that wave and held them on the edge of _not enough_ until he was nearly out of his mind, until Stiles could no longer catch his breath and his gasps were desperate and on the edge of pain before he finally pulled one of Stiles’ legs into the crook of his elbow and _plowed_ deep and hard past any resistance, spurred on by the way Stiles was nearly howling, out of his mind completely, his hands carving deep welts into Derek’s arms where they held him fast and unmoving, driving his hips up to meet Derek’s thrusts just as hard as he was pushing down.  
  
    Stiles came hard and silently, spilling hot and slick between them, tightening so much that Derek could hardly move for a few seconds before he finally loosened and his whole body softened, warming like a hot bath, eyes glazed and power spilling out of him, overloading Derek with a sense of ease and euphoria, so high that when he came it felt like something holy, a prayer laid out in sweat and blood and come and he felt just a little bit like a god.  
  
    There was a second of panic afterward, when Stiles started shaking and Derek thought he might have been crying, before he realized it was laughter instead, quiet and a little shaky, like he was feeling just as high as Derek felt.  He had a mischievous glint in his eyes and his smile shone in the moonlight when their eyes met.  
  
    “You want to go again?”  
  
    Derek could feel himself getting hard already, just from the laughter in Stiles’ eyes.  He thought maybe this kid was going to be the death of him, but then again, he knew he wouldn’t mind it if he was.  
  
    Besides, the moon was full, and he still had hours left to endure.    
  
    True to his word, Stiles was there for all of them, all the way until the sky started lightening and they were both spent but not quite done, still sliding softly against each other, still trying to lose themselves in one another’s bodies.  They finally drifted off to sleep, fucked out and halfway fucking, high beyond reason on the magic they’d unleashed, just as the first glints of sunlight started cutting across the floor.  
  
    He fully expected to wake up alone and a mess in every sense of the word, but figured that the night had been worth whatever comedown was waiting.  Instead he slid back into consciousness with the warm weight of Stiles still in his arms.  And although they reeked like a whorehouse and the sheets were likely wrecked, Derek felt more whole than he had felt in a very, very long time.  It was enough to make him nearly panic, but Stiles just tightened his arms around Derek as he fought to catch his breath, told him to _shut up_ in a sleepy mumble, and that was all he needed to calm down.  
  
    He knew, oh hell, he knew damned well that at some point the devil was going to have his due, and nothing this unstable was likely to end well.  But Derek was pretty used to things going to shit.  And if there was one thing that his life had taught him was that if a moment was good, he should hold on to it for all it was worth until it was wrenched from his hands.  Nothing lasted, after all.  But the memory of this full moon was going to keep him far warmer than anything ever had since that fire had taken out his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, the sex is pretty rough and there is a little blood, but I'm not thinking any of it is enough to warrant any new tags. If you should disagree or feel that I should add a warning, just let me know!


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Derek wondered what Stiles would think of all this. For the life of him, he couldn’t decide if he would laugh or cry._

    They woke up again at nearly the same time, slowly, as if they both knew the rest of the world was about to come rushing in the minute they broke the silence.  So instead of talking, Derek dragged them both into the shower.  Derek blew Stiles in there, while they were both slick and slippery, sliding a finger in and out of his ass slow and easy until Stiles came on a soft groan and all but melted.    
  
    Stiles sat on the shower floor and watched through hooded sleepy eyes, mesmerized as Derek brought himself off with what was possibly a little more show than necessary, but Stiles was an excellent audience.  He bowed his chest when Derek came on him with a hard shudder, rubbing Derek’s come into his skin with a pleased laugh.  
  
    They got clean eventually, broke their silence eventually, negotiated a morning neither of them wanted to face, until finally they were both standing at the island holding mugs of coffee and there were words on Derek’s tongue that he could no longer hold back.  
  
    “Stay.”  
  
    “I mean, it doesn’t have to be _here_ , just don’t… don’t disappear anymore. Or, if you have to, then take me with you.  Let me help.  Don’t just leave me here.”    
  
    There were echoes in his own ears of the last conversation he had with Laura.  He held no illusions that this would end any better than that had.  That collar around Stiles’ neck felt heavy, a void of its own, a fucking black hole Derek had no hope of fighting against.  But he’d flail at it anyway, weak fisted as he might have been.  
  
    “That collar, Stiles, you know it can’t be good.  You know it’s coming with a price.  Are you sure you can afford it?  Wouldn’t it be better to take it off, lean on us instead?  Let us all in on this fight?”  
  
    Stiles shook his head slowly.  “Not now, not with these guys, Derek.”  He speared Derek with eyes full of calm clarity, as inhuman as they might have looked.  “You’re not an enemy or a threat to them, Derek, you’re a _commodity_. They know more about your kind than probably even you do, not just how to kill you, but how to stop you, how to control you.  How to _own_ you.  Me, on the other hand?  They don’t have a fucking clue about me.  They’re as fucked as Peter.  I just need a little time, that’s all.  I’ll take the collar off, I swear I will, just… I need to finish this.”  
  
    It had gone about that well with Laura.    
  
    Only this time he wasn’t going to beg, wasn’t going to sit and watch Stiles walk out the door while fear sat like a golf ball in his throat, choking him with tears.  
  
    Instead he pulled Stiles in and kissed him, long and thorough, kissed Stiles breathless before leaning in close and growling quiet.  “You need me, _any time_ , for _anything_ , you come for me.  I’ll be ready.  _You are not alone_ , Stiles.  _I’m yours_ , understand?”  
  
    He waited only long enough for Stiles’ wide-eyed nod before he walked out of his loft, down the stairs and out, not caring where he was going, only that he wasn’t going to stop for a long, long time.  
  
    The loft was empty by the time he got home.  The sheets on his bed were clean, and only the slightest hint of amber and cinnamon hung in the air.  But it was nothing new for Derek, to be stuck in a room full of ghosts.  
  
~~~  
  
    Eventually, someone other than ghosts came knocking.  Well, not so much knocking, more like just letting himself into the loft and dropping a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers on the coffee table before settling down in front of Derek.  It had to be symbolic.  Derek was pretty certain the Sheriff knew he couldn’t get drunk.  
  
    The Sheriff shrugged as if to answer while he unscrewed the cap and poured them both a couple fingers.  “Kids down the street are throwing a kegger, and I am _not_ going to be the one to call the cops on it.  Not tonight, not while I can’t stop thinking Stiles should be the one doing stupid shit like that instead of the things he’s…”  
  
    Derek threw back a swig with the Sheriff, wishing it _could_ do more than slide down warm and smoky.  He waited the Sheriff out as he took a couple more swigs before he finally sat back and started talking, mostly to his glass.  
  
    “The Feds, The Marshals, State cops, they all think I’m some kind of armchair scientist, with the types of questions I’ve been asking.  So much so that now they’ve taken it upon themselves to send me stuff on all kinds of _anomalous phenomenon_ , because we’re all palls now, right?”  
  
    He had to empty his glass before he went on, tossing the tumbler on the table and crossing his arms while he finally looked Derek dead in the eye.  “Apparently there’s a whole team of geologists collectively losing their minds somewhere in Idaho, because there isn’t a single reason for that flash flood to have happened.  And don’t get me wrong, it did happen, all those men _did_ drown.  From the force of a spring that hasn’t ever been stronger than a garden hose, not for at least the last three hundred years.  Which suddenly and for no particular reason became stronger than a city main.  Those men were beaten, ripped up and drowned.”  
  
    Derek wanted to shake his head, argue that the men had already been dead, but how would that help?  He settled instead for pouring the Sheriff more whiskey.  There was a whisper of doubt in his gut, too.  Did he really _know_ the men had been dead?  He’d ripped his way through those men.  The only certainty he had about them was that they weren’t getting back up when he left.  But they could have been breathing.  _Stiles could have kept them alive_ , and that was a thought that had him drinking down his own slug, for the burn of it if nothing else.  
  
    The Sheriff didn’t seem to be looking for any answers, took the next cup a little slower, seemed to have no problem with Derek’s silence, either.  For his part, Derek spent a moment wondering if he had a clean blanket and pillow for the Sheriff, and whether he’d left anything incriminating out in the bathroom.  It was a useful distraction.  
  
    The Sheriff’s voice cutting through the silence almost startled Derek.  “Is he… at least, can you tell me, is he thinking straight?  Or, at least clearly?”  
  
    Derek shrugged, thought good and hard about his answer, letting the silence settle for a moment.  “He knows who he is.  He thinks he knows what he’s doing, but with Stiles…” The Sheriff’s own huffed laugh cut through that,  "For what it’s worth, he seems lucid.  And he seems to have and endgame in sight for this.  But if that collar is anything like a drug…”  
  
    No need to explain the havoc of addiction to a law enforcement officer.  The Sheriff nodded like he got it, loud and clear.  “Would it be redundant of me to point out just how nervous words like _endgame_ make me?  Is my son going to go thermonuclear on me, Derek?”  
  
    It was highly possible that the Sheriff was hoping to hear something a little more definitive than, “I don’t _think_ so?”  but that was the best Derek could do.  
  
    Other than, of course, refilling his cup and laying out the couch for him.  
  
    Derek wondered what Stiles would think of all this.  For the life of him, he couldn’t decide if he would laugh or cry.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Supernatural bullshit notwithstanding. His being in love with the man’s son notwithstanding as well._

    Stiles didn’t leave Derek after all.  Not completely.  
  
    One day he woke up to find an unusual feather on the pillow next to him, lightly scented with gunpowder.  Other times he’d drift awake, thinking he could feel the sheets next to him still warm from a body.  He’d catch Stiles’ scent at odd moments, sometimes swearing he could hear his heartbeat.  
  
    And they dreamt.  Together, like they had early on, only now they just ran.  Through  woods, through fields, through empty late night city streets, they ran, Derek a swift passing spirit and Stiles a flitting shadow, a play in moonlight and motion.  They would run and Stiles would laugh like a prayer to an ancient god.  
  
    Sometimes Derek would feel sudden flashes he knew weren’t his, a moment of rage, a breath of wonder, fear like ice-melt running down his back.  No pain, and that he was grateful for.  No words either.  They didn’t talk, not in those dreams, not in any way.  And now that Stiles’ skills had risen to the height of natural disasters, it was almost impossible to track his actions.  But Derek would take what he could get, and wasn’t going to ask for more.  
  
    Once he’d resigned himself to ghosts and shadows, he was just grateful for the proof of life.  
  
    Deaths continued.  Freak accidents, drunken bar fights, mistaken identities, hunting mishaps.  
  
    No way to tell how much of it was Stiles.  When you were looking, it was kind of awe-inspiring, how many people died on a daily basis without any supernatural assistance.  No way to figure it out, either, not without actually going to the crime scenes, and Derek wasn’t going anywhere.  
  
    Stiles was a grown-ass whatever the hell he was, and he was going to have to hold his own if he was going to keep this up.  Stiles was counting on Derek to believe in that, because he needed Derek right where he was, watching over the Sheriff, Scott, Melissa, and everybody else he’d managed to find himself giving a fuck about, the list was long, and the bottom line was that if Derek was going to keep Stiles’ dad safe, he was going to have to keep Beacon Hills safe.    
  
    Or at least as safe as any vaguely mortal creature could possibly keep a supernatural gateway.  He hadn’t signed up to be the town’s Batman, but then, if such was the case, that would make Stiles Robin, and wouldn’t that just piss him off?  The thought kept Derek moving.  He even debated getting a mask, just for the hell of it.  Thought of Stiles in booty shorts, just for the hell of it as well, wondered if he could send _that_ thought to the kid.  
  
    Derek stayed alert and moved under the radar.  Finally got the Super Awesome Alpha Team to at least coordinate, worked out communication networks, came up with patrol schedules.  Made it clear, by virtue of giving orders, that Scott was no longer the only Alpha involved.  And that, in fact, the Sheriff was an Alpha of his own.    
  
    Scott fell in line.  It was a predictable end result, given that regardless of his other titles, Scott was still a teenaged boy.  And Derek was keeping the Sheriff in the loop on everything he could.  _Everything._   Because something happened the night the Sheriff got drunk on Derek’s couch, something happened as Derek watched the man curl into his grandmother’s blanket.  _(He’d saved it.  It had been in the car trunk the night of the fire.  It had meant nothing then, just a rag for a picnic or if things got cold.)_    
  
    The Sheriff was family.  Or whatever Derek had left that could pass for family.  He’d been there the night of the fire, he’d been there, all along, whether it be putting a blanket over his shoulders or cuffs on his wrists, the man had _been there_ , and that meant something, in and of itself.  Supernatural bullshit notwithstanding.  His being in love with the man’s son notwithstanding as well.  
   
    They had more than enough on their hands dealing with all the vultures of the supernatural world stopping in for a bite, even while their black market supply chains and infrastructure slowly disintegrated.  Because _something_ Stiles was doing was working, enough that the Sheriff’s buddies were puzzled and a bit alarmed, concerned that some new interest might be burning its way through the competition.  _Nobody_ could figure out what the hell was going on.  
  
    Derek spent far too much time feeling like he was somewhere between awake and dreaming.  Maybe it was all those dreamtime runs, or maybe it was just being under the sphere of influence of the fey.  Or maybe it was their bond.  Or, to be more precise, how the collar played into that bond.  Not much time to contemplate it, just grit his teeth and manage to get through the day not looking like he was as high as a kite.    
  
     He knew Stiles was feeling that collar too, had gotten glances and glimpses of what the world looked like through his eyes.  His entire vision was overlaid with a kaleidoscope, endless patterns of energy, flowing constantly, like a heat-shimmer over everything.  He could almost understand the way Stiles could pluck at those strings.  Make things happen.  
  
    But Stiles was there and present, wherever he was, pretending to be perfectly sane, winding his way through crowds as easily as they ran through the woods.  Camouflaged.  Unnoticed, except where he wanted to be seen, and seen only exactly how he wanted them to.  
  
    When Stiles finally did show up, sitting on the floor against the bed and bumping his head against Derek’s shoulder, it took a long time for Derek to clock it wasn’t another dream.  He curled in after that, let his hands roam over Stiles’ back, brought his face in close and just _breathed_.  
  
    Eventually they eased back, enough to look at each other, for Derek to crack a sleepy smile.  “You came.  You’re here.  How are you?”  
  
    Stiles' answering smile was a far wilder thing.  “Oh, my god, Derek, you don’t even know.  I’m _in_.  Like, I’m _inside their heads_ , making them see shit, and holy shit Derek…”  
  
    Derek pulled Stiles close again and whispered _“Breathe.”_  
  
    Stiles sucked down a long breath and dropped his head into Derek’s large hands, letting himself be petted.  They didn’t speak much after that.  Eventually Stiles crawled up into the bed and Derek held him.  Tight and counting every heartbeat.    
  
    He left right when the sky was starting to lighten.  Didn’t vanish into thin air.  Stepped out on the fire escape instead, cocky grin back on his face.    
  
    “You can keep dreaming, asshole, but we all know you’re Alfred.  I’m the one flying off into the night.”  
  
    Derek cracked a grin through the pain of watching him go.  “You just keep telling yourself that, Boy Wonder.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Stiles was lit up, smelling like ozone and gunpowder, and it was making Derek breathless_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, I've forgotten. Do you folks require a warning for a lot of raunchy sex? Because there it is.

The next time, Derek heard the call. It didn’t come with a pull, there was no coercion, just an invitation. Or maybe more than that. As he chased down the scent of cinnamon and lightning, he picked up other scents. Heat. Desire. But again, much more of a flirt than a seduction, and it made Derek run just that much faster, that there should be no force about it.

They were deep in the darkest, most hidden corner of the preserve when he’d thought he’d lost the trail, only to feel a laughing breath on the back of his neck and realize that _he_ was the one being chased. And it had been a hell of a lifetime since he’d played tag, but then again, when he was a kid tag never ended the way Stiles intended it to, if the _want_ seeping out through the bond was any indication.

It was a merry fucking chase and Derek was smiling like a goddamned lunatic by the end of it. Stiles managed to tackle Derek after skipping off a tree, nearly flying through the air in a perfect arc. The tackle probably wouldn’t have been so hard if Derek hadn’t stopped dead in his tracks to watch the grace of it, but he’d gotten good at taking hard falls, and it was definitely worth it.

If the way Stiles had already started rutting against Derek with hard determined thrusts was any indication, Stiles could have given a shit about the hard landing. Stiles _wanted_. Hands gripping hard and pinning him, fierce biting kisses, and it was an echo of _everything_ , all the dreams they’d had. It felt like the most natural thing, to give in and let go. For once, he could. After all, he _knew_ those hands.

He let his body go lax, spreading his legs wide. Stiles replied with a growl and a bite to Derek’s neck. Human teeth. They could do little to no damage, but lit up a trail of sparks along his spine. He was writhing, nearly whining and breathless by the time Stiles let up and looked him in the eye.

“You with me, big guy?” He ground his hips hard, pushing low, as if he intended on fucking Derek straight through two pairs of jeans.

Derek was panting from it, practically ready to throw his damned ankles over his ears if it would get the show on. He opted for nodding. Stiles grinned like he already knew the rest, pressed against Derek with his whole body, caging him in and biting him once more before whispering hot and close into his ear.

“Fair warning, we do this, it’s not just gonna be sex. I need…. _more_.”

Derek was nodding again before Stiles had even finished the sentence. Stiles was lit up, smelling like ozone and gunpowder, and it was making Derek breathless. There was no way he was going to step away from this ride.

Stiles was laughing again, working a hand down between them and gnawing on Derek’s neck and Derek just gave him play, slid his hands up under Stiles’ latest disaster of a shirt and dragged clawed hands down, enough to draw a little blood. Enough to make Stiles hiss and somehow cause every piece of metal on their pants to fall away like sand. Zippers, snaps and rivets just fucking _gone_ , soft cotton and velvet skin the only thing left and Derek had his legs wrapped around Stiles’ waist, rubbing and grinding like he couldn’t get close enough.

Which, his pants still functionally being _on_ , he couldn’t. His grunt of protest was answered with a light laugh, with Stiles just _lifting_ Derek and sliding his pants off. He hadn’t realized how strong Stiles had become. Also, it turned him on _ridiculously_ , and he nearly tackled Stiles back into his arms.

He couldn’t resist testing that strength, couldn’t resist making it half-horseplay, and from the breathless laughs and shouts from Stiles, it was just as fun for him. Like the wrestling they had done not so long ago, only this time there were no limits and every potential had come to fruition. It was fucking glorious, pun intended, and Derek lost himself to every second of it.

Until he was once again face down on the ground and locked in place, Stiles’ body as hard as steel above him and completely unmovable. Not That Derek really wanted him off, anyway. They were sweat-slicked and slippery, and Stiles kept teasing, sliding his dick down Derek’s crack over and over again. Derek was nearly out of his fucking mind, and hoped his grunted growl conveyed as much.

A hot breath on his ear told him it had. “C’mon, big guy, you know how this goes. _You have to give_. Just let go.”

_Just let go_. He used to _hate_ it when lovers said shit like that. His brain would check the fuck out and all he’d want to know was _what_ , exactly, it was they wanted him to let go of. What they wanted to take from him.

But this was Stiles. And this was different, this was every kind of different as he dropped his head and let his muscles soften. He knew Stiles, scrawny little bastard that he may be, was just about the only person capable of taking care of him. So he let go, in whatever way he could think of, lifted his ass and fucking _presented_ to the bastard in question. It was well appreciated.

Stiles’ touch was a little hesitant, though. His hands just a little shaky, his breath short and based on the signals Derek was getting, Stiles was just as overwhelmed as Derek was. For once, Derek didn’t feel the need to tease or push. For once, he just stayed still and took it.

And was rewarded by becoming methodically and _completely_ familiar with those nimble hands as they prepped him with merciless precision. He was distressingly aware that he might cry before Stiles finally let off and deemed him ready to fuck. It was unbelievably obscene, how grateful Derek was.

That breath was hot in his ear again, but it made him feel shivery, goosebumps rising in its wake. “Be patient princess. Gotta get you nice and ready before I wreck you on my dick.”

Those words, coming from _that_ mouth. Stiles was hitting a deeper tenor than he usually had. His hands had stopped shaking, had become much more sure as he’d taken Derek apart. He thought maybe hearing Stiles say something like that to him back in the day would have made him laugh. Now all he could do was shudder under his hands and whimper.

Whimper and finally groan deep with relief as Stiles sank in and just kept going until he bottomed out with a pant, one hand gripping the back of Derek’s neck about as hard as steel, the other latched on to Derek’s hips, holding him still right where Stiles wanted. Nothing Derek could do but take it as Stiles’ grip tightened and warmed, his hips setting a hard and steady beat that drove deeper into Derek than he had thought possible.

Or maybe that was the magic. Stiles’ entire body warming, his hands _drawing_ something out of Derek, and Derek welcomed it just as much as he welcomed the hand on his dick, drawing even more out of him. Both experiences were twined, sex and magic had always been with them.  There was something almost natural about the exchange. Instinctual.

It was a lot like taking pain. Or, at least the _doing_ of it was, poles reversed, same principle.

He figured it out in practice right about at the same time that he came, _pouring_ what energy and power he could into Stiles. It made Stiles come with a shout, crashing into Derek as if his orgasm had been ripped out of him and just kept going. Until he finally caught enough of a breath to whisper _“Stop”_.

Derek did, let Stiles disentangle them until they were lying side by side on the ground, some pilfered piece of clothing under their heads, foreheads close in on a shared breath.

Derek was still feeling out of breath and hazy. His vision was slightly blurred, so he couldn’t be sure, but he swore Stiles practically looked like he was glowing, something a little more gold than silver about his skin, some kind of molten fire in his eyes. He couldn’t see much all too clearly, but he could see and feel the fond affection in those eyes as Stiles raised a hand to cup his face gently.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Derek figured a raised eyebrow and give-a-fuck grin were answer enough. By now they should be, given how common and constant conversations like this went back and forth between them. He had a suspicion what that was for, at any rate.

“You said you wanted _more_. I wanted to give you _more_. So I did.”

“Yeah. _Too much_. By far. You need to be careful for a few days.  You’re going to feel weak and sick. Do you realize you could kill yourself? Just pour everything out of yourself until you can’t heal, until you can’t keep your heart beating?”

Derek didn’t lower his eyebrow, but he did bring his own hand up to Stiles' face. “I do now. And I’ll be more careful next time. But you needed this, Stiles, and keeping you alive is definitely worth getting the flu.”

“Like I said. Idiot.”

At least Stiles had the grace to jump them back to Derek’s loft, albeit not quietly. “Might as well use some of that juice you gave me to get us a hot shower. But don’t get used to this. There’s no way I can move this far without the help.”

It was nails on a chalkboard for Derek, hearing Stiles call that collar _help_. But at least he was still contemplating a future without it.

They stepped in the shower and Derek just held Stiles. Held him and did not let go as the hot water sheeted over them and Stiles did his best to get them both clean.

He woke up with the sun in his eye, tucked neatly in bed with no clear idea of how he got there. There was a note taped to a water bottle by the bed. It was Stiles’ messy scrawl, _“just pretend you’re human for a few days. and for fuck’s sake, take it easy.”_

He couldn’t argue with that, especially given that he felt like he’d been run over by an 18-wheeler.

He slept a lot for a few days. And ate greasy foods. And although he’d never admit it, went back on some of the games he used to play with Stiles.

He’d started feeling fine and decided it was time for real food by the time Stiles showed up again. He was waiting, sitting on Derek’s couch when Derek walked in with a bag of groceries.

“I have a plan, but you’re not going to like it.”

Ten minutes later, Derek was standing with his arms crossed, shaking his head on a scowl. “You’re right. I hate it.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“When you said_ tame _, this was not exactly what I expected."_

    _Ten minutes later, Derek was standing with his arms crossed, shaking his head on a scowl.  “You’re right.  I hate it.”_  
  
    “Aw, c’mon, Derek, just hear me out…”  
  
    He was staring at a pickup truck outfitted the same way that trapper truck had been, cage on the flatbed, a little too big for an average dog.  Didn’t exactly take a genius to figure where Stiles was going with this one.  But Derek let him reel it out, if nothing else than to figure out how fucked he was.  
  
    “The hinges are held together with _toothpicks_ , Derek.  If I hit a bump too hard I’m liable to break the thing apart.  _Anything_ goes south, just break out and go.  In fact, once I let you out, just run for the tree line, I’ll cover you.  I just need some guys brought together.  I’ve been bragging about having a tame wolf, and they’re willing to meet up in order to get proof.”  
  
    “So, you go to show them proof and I just run off?  Wouldn’t that defeat the point?”  There was, he thought, a lot he wasn’t getting.  
  
    “I just need _in_ , Derek.  It doesn’t matter if they think I’m an idiot.  It could even work to my advantage.  I just need to get in close enough.”  
  
     _“I need that contact…”_    The memory of those words came laced with the smell of blood soaking into the tarmac.  Echoes of not-so-very-long-ago that felt like years, but then again, when was that ever not the case for Derek?  How many lifetimes and tragedies had he already lived?  But he was _in_ on this fucked-up mission, for good or ill.  If Stiles said _run_ , Derek appreciated the sentiment.  However, even if he did, he had no intention of going very far.  
  
    Honestly it was something of a relief that this thing was about as well-conceived a plan as any other half-cocked scheme Stiles came up with.  It was _human_ , and to think that there was any  of that left in Stiles was heartening.  Half-assed as it may have been.  Heartwarmingly familiar.        
  
    It was hard not to sport a shit-eating grin as he listened to Stiles spool out what details he had managed to plot out.  Also completely impossible not to keep his opinion to himself about a thing or two.  Some of which Stiles did not appreciate in the least.  All of which Derek didn’t actually give much of a shit about, knowing that things were going to go pear-shaped and all plans would be irrelevant soon enough.  
  
    It was just… he’d missed it.  He’d missed winding the kid up.  He’d missed feeling like he was stoking an unpredictable fire.  He’d even missed feeling like his life was in serious peril, hanging on the frayed end of some hair-brained scheme.  
  
    At least he thought he’d missed it, up until he was in full wolf form, bumping along on a fire-road in the middle of nowhere, watching the cage sway and creak above his head.  His best guess would be that they were deep in the thick woods of the pacific northwest, but they could have been in Alaska, for all that he knew one wilderness from another.  
  
    The base thump and din of the backwoods rave they’d just wound past was fading, but not by much.  Which meant Derek had both the woods and the crowd as options for cover.  The traffickers Stiles was after supplied parties like these with drugs and liked to keep a close eye on their profit so it wasn’t odd that the men would pick a place like this, but Derek couldn’t help but wonder if there were other factors involved in the choosing of this location.  
  
    Factors like suggestion.  If Stiles did have a hand in picking this place, Derek was grateful for the forethought.  He shook himself after the truck stopped and the cab slammed open and closed.  Watched Stiles come around to the back and shove a hand through the bars, deep into the scruff of Derek’s shoulder.  Derek knew he should have snapped, should have shown teeth and backed away, but animal selves are much more guileless, and he couldn’t resist the urge to lean in instead.  
  
    It was also possible that Stiles genuinely didn’t realize they had company.  He did stiffen when he heard a voice clear behind him, but that could have been performance.  The way Derek showed teeth was not.  
  
    The old man cradling a shotgun ambled closer as other men came into view.  “When you said _tame_ , this was not exactly what I expected.  Tame _indeed_.  That beast looks like he’s in love with you.”  
  
    Stiles’ heart was racing next to Derek’s ear, but it had almost nothing to do with fear.  His voice was calm and bright.  “He’s a _thinking_ creature.  He understands loyalty.  I share my kills with him and he keeps me safe.  I would think that a man so long in your line of business would know they’re much more than simple _beasts_.”  
  
    The man huffed a laugh.  “A man in my line of business would rather hear it from the beast _himself_ , rather than waste my time with a smartass kid.”  
  
    It was a comfort that Stiles had an angle where looking like an idiot would work in his favor, but he hoped there was also a contingency that covered this development.  Derek wasn’t looking forward to standing stark naked surrounded by well-armed men.  He liked the idea of just breaking out and running more and more, but Derek knew there were more men in the trees, and with all the background noise it was going to take him a while to figure out exactly where they were.  
  
    Stiles, though.  Stiles was calmer than he had any right to be.  He reached over and unlatched the door, letting it swing open.  Derek jumped down amid nervous breaths and a grumble or two, shifted as soon as his feet touched ground.  The rapid change had more than a few hearts racing and men tightening their grip on their guns, but the old man had the presence of mind to stay calm, and no one pointed anything at Derek.    
  
    He entertained the thought that they might all make it out in one piece for about three seconds before Stiles sharpened like a blade and his entire demeanor changed, his eyes locking on someone behind Derek just as Derek registered the words, _“The video, that’s the guy from the video, the one that was live streaming right before-”_  
  
    Stiles whispered _"Close your eyes,"_ and the only thought he had as the shock wave of a blast pushed Derek off his feet was that at least this time somebody warned him.  He landed on his back in his bed, and although the precision of his landing point was impressive, he didn’t appreciate all the other bits of debris that had ridden the wave with him and were raining down on his sheets around him.  
  
    Also, there was another man in the loft with him, and it wasn’t Stiles.  This man had been less lucky with the landing, leaving an impact trail scraped across Derek’s floor to stop up against a wall.  Other than the road-rash and the fact that he was puking, though, he seemed relatively intact.  That did not make Derek feel any better.  
  
    Stiles dropped in, coming into focus between one step and the next.  “I swear, that was a plan.  Maybe a little more… explosive than I was expecting, but still!  It was one of the plans!”  
  
    Derek growled, derailing Stiles’ thoughts and finally _looking_ at Derek, who pointed out, with little else than the use of his eyebrows, that _they were not alone_.    
  
    The guy had noticed little.  He’d stopped puking but had only managed to crawl a few feet away, where he kneeled, curled in a ball with his head pressed against the ground, groaning.  
  
    Stiles only glanced at him briefly.  “Oh, yeah, that’s Tommy.  He’s a complete asshole, but he’s undercover for the DEA.  He’s not one of the bad guys.  I couldn’t face my dad if I’d left him there.  He doesn’t know anything.”  
  
    Derek could feel the murder eyebrows he was sporting.  “What the hell am I supposed to tell him, Stiles?”  
  
    Stiles shrugged, arms raised to the air.  “I dunno, Derek.  After all the shit he’s seen today, does it even matter?  His brain is a little scrambled right now and his memory of the last few days is gonna be spotty.  And no matter what he _does_ remember, he’s the one that’s going to have to figure out how to explain to his bosses how he ended up here in the first place.  I don’t care what he knows.  He’s basically irrelevant.  Take him to my dad, maybe he can figure it out.”  
  
    Derek had nothing to say that his active bitch face wasn’t already conveying, so he let it go at that.  Welcomed it when Stiles slid over and kissed him fiercely.  Watched him go while he muttered something about needing to be in five different places.  
  
    At least he had the presence of mind to walk out of the loft before he disappeared.    
  
    There was a long silence during which Derek seriously contemplated just climbing in the bed, dirt and all, before he heard Tommy clear his throat.  
  
    “His father?”  
  
    Derek nodded slowly.  “The Sheriff.”  
  
    And that was definitely a gust of relief.    
  
    There was another heavy silence in which Derek contemplated putting some clothes on before the man finally spoke again.  His voice was decidedly shakier.  
  
    “And you?”  
  
    Derek thought about it, then thought _fuck it_ in a voice decidedly puck-ish, and he answered.    
  
    “Werewolf.”  
  
    Tommy had slouched over on his side and had Derek in his sight line.  He nodded, just a little, eyes a little too wide for comfort.  
  
    “I think I remember that.  I think I remember all of it.  Up until Johnson was saying something about a vide–“  
  
    “You should probably not.  Ever.  Mention that again.”  
  
    Tommy swallowed and nodded, message loud and clear, for what it was worth.    
  
    Derek got his clothes on.  He didn’t bother to call the Sheriff, figuring there wasn’t any urgency to this clusterfuck, just drove them both to the station when they were both capable of negotiating the journey.  Agent Tommy was far more calm once they pulled into the municipal parking lot and walked into the police department.    
  
    Until they were sitting and waiting for the Sheriff, not far from the break room.  There was a breaking news report on the TV.  About a rave and a bomb and maybe two dozen people killed.  Identities as of yet undeclared.  Everyone’s eyes were locked on the screen, taking in the news of this latest catastrophe, watching chaos and trees lit up in helicopter high beams.  
  
    Everyone except Derek.  And finally, for a moment, the agent.  
  
    Their eyes locked and Derek could see the penny drop.  Derek pulled him aside, into a quiet corner, already arguing on Stiles’ behalf.  “He saved you.  He saved you because he knew…”  
  
    But the agent was already there with him, nodding, eyes hard.  “Nobody there-  _Nobody there_ deserved to live.  You gotta understand, I’m used to busting dealers, meth cookers, smugglers, that kind of shit.  I never asked to get sucked into this _human trafficking_ bullshit.  I’m glad they’re dead.  They _needed_ killing.”  
  
    Derek was dazed throughout the meeting with the Sheriff. It was a short affair, Agent Randolph doing most of the talking.  According to his understanding, Stiles found him semi-conscious in a ditch and brought him to Derek’s.  Derek tended to him until he was lucid, then brought him here.  
  
    Clearing Stiles, on the record, entirely, of any bombings or other events hundreds of miles from Beacon Hills.  
  
    Which, Derek imagined, put the Sheriff in a very odd position.  Because on the one hand he knew better than to believe the story.  And on the other, here was his son, exonerated by nothing less than a fellow police officer.    
  
    He was, after all, just a man.  And above all else, a father.  
  
    It looked like it galled, and the Sheriff was just about as efficient and terse as Derek had ever seen him, sending the agent off with a deputy in short order.  He didn’t even make eye contact with Derek as he sent him off with a hand wave and went on to deal with whatever latest catastrophe had landed on his desk.  
  
    Derek was almost certain the man had actually been holding a take-out menu, but he wouldn’t hold it against the Sheriff.  

    Agent Randolph managed to pull Derek aside before he could get out.  He speared Derek with a sharp look and a pointed finger.  “You tell that little shit that I am not fucking _basically irrelevant_ , okay?”  
  
    He didn’t bother to point out to Agent Randolph that he might have just played into _that little shit’s_ hand.  He’d figure it out on his own sooner or later.

  
    Derek thought he’d be happy to be home.  And really, he was.  Right up until the moment he realized he was going to have to pull out the shop vac to clean his bed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Remember lovelies, comments are manna, but unsolicited criticism is non-consensual crit. Don't like it? Move on to find something you do like and read that. Or better yet, write something. There's always room for more.  
> [my art (main) tumblr](http://vendettalee.tumblr.com/)  
> [my writing tumblr](http://vendettaleewrites.tumblr.com/)  
> [my fangirl tumblr](http://dontbeafuntcart.tumblr.com/)


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